


it’s really nice having her around (again)

by burstofpeony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, Flashbacks, Lesbian Character, Not Canon Compliant, hermione's a badass, magic ofc, pansy's famous, what if we met again when we were both successful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 60,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burstofpeony/pseuds/burstofpeony
Summary: It was early October of eighth year when Draco and Harry got together. It was loud and dramatic, like everything else they did with each other.It was late October when Blaise started sneaking out to the Quidditch Pitch at odd hours of the day, and it was November when someone spotted him kissing Ginny Weasley in the hall.And it was right before Thanksgiving when Ron and Lavender, hand in hand, walked into the eighth year common room and announced they were going to give it another try.And in between, it was Dean and Seamus, and Padma and Theo, and Millicent and Anthony, and all the rest, pairing up quickly and sweetly, until it felt like Pansy and Hermione were the only ones left in the entire school who weren’t in a relationship.From there, it was all so inevitable.Ten years after Hogwarts and ten years after the most devastating breakup either of them have ever been through, Pansy and Hermione start to make their way back together again.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Comments: 18
Kudos: 131





	1. i never thought i’d see you again (again)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- all characters are product of jkr and the harry potter books  
> slight tw: about halfway through the chapter there is talk of sexual harassment.

Hermione’s fucking exhausted, that’s for sure. And angry.

Some idiot paralegal at her firm decided that now, in the middle of their biggest case ever, would be a good time to go and get knee surgery. It makes her want to bang her head against a wall, and apparently that was obvious to those around her, because, two hours ago, Ron and Lavender had shown up at her firm and dragged her out the door, kicking and screaming, to go to a club.

“Why are we even going to a club?” She says, for the nth time in two hours. “We’re 35, Ronald.”

The Lyft dropped them two blocks away from the club, so now Hermione’s being forced to walk, in a dress, in the cold wind, and with a pair of fucking  _ stilts _ on her feet--

“Hermione, baby, this’ll be fun!” Lavender says, grinning, flashing those shiny, white teeth. 

“We’re 35, Lav,” Hermione insists. “It’s not our natural habitat--”

“Oh, fuck the natural habitat! Come on, we all have stuff to celebrate, and what better way to do that than to foolishly live out our twenties?” Ron says, voice booming, looping his arm through Lavender’s. 

“What do I have to celebrate? I can’t even keep one employee from fucking off--”

“Hermione!” Ron interjects. “No! Only good vibes tonight.”

Lavender giggles, high pitched and short, which prompts Ron to giggle as well, then stumble.

Hermione stops walking, eyes narrowing. 

“Are you-- oh my fucking-- you two are  _ high _ , aren’t you?” 

Ron and Lavender slow, turning slightly, but it’s so  _ obvious _ , Merlin, how did she not notice before?

“No?”

“Oh my fucking god! You two-- dragging me out in the middle of a big case, because ‘you cared’-- you just needed a fucking chaperone!”

Lavender reaches for her, shushing her, blowing her marijuana scented breath right in Hermione’s face.

“‘Mione, baby, we were concerned! You’re too stressed. One night of partying is going to help, we promise.”

“Yeah, besides, we got high while you were putting on your makeup, so. We had already invited you,” Ron adds.

“That’s not a compelling argument!” Hermione replies, voice squeaking.

“Ooh! There’s the club! Come on, lady and gent, or else there’ll be too much of a line,” Lavender murmurs, roughly grabbing Hermione’s arm and yanking her down the sidewalk. 

Before Hermione can see the name of the club, or the street name, or anything about the place really, Lavender is yanking her through the door.

From the very minute, nay,  _ second _ Hermione gets inside she regrets agreeing to go out.

The music is ear-splittingly loud, the lights are strobing, which is  _ incredibly _ dangerous--

Hermione faintly wonders if she should be on the lookout for potential lawsuits. Her firm could use the business…

“Hermione!” Lavender screams over the music. “Take a drink!”

Lavender shoves a shot glass of… vodka, maybe? into Hermione’s hand, and downs hers, whooping loudly and then stumbling off.

“Christ,” Hermione mutters, setting the glass onto a nearby table without touching it. 

Should she be concerned about Lavender and Ron? Are they having marital problems, or work problems? She knew they’d been trying to have a kid for a little bit, so maybe there was some frustration there--

“Hermione, stop it!” Ron yells, suddenly right in her face. “That’s your thinking face! Stop thinking!”

Hermione scowls, pushing him away. “You don’t get to tell me that!”

His eyes widen almost comically. “Hermione-- stop it! Just-- ugh, here, come get a drink with me.”

She lets Ron pull her to the bar, where Lavender is arguing with the bartender for something. 

“But, sir-- really. I’m a renowned writer, I deserve a discount--!” 

“Three shots of tequila,” Ron says simply.

“ _ Tequila _ , Ronald?” Hermione yelps, disbelieving. They’re 35, and having tequila-- Christ. She’s as bad as the paralegal. Drinking on a work night. Well, it’s technically Saturday, yes, but the workload is humongous, really, so--

“One, two, three!” 

Ron and Lavender both knock back their shots on three, giggling and falling into each other. 

Okay.

She really should be concerned.

As Ron and Lavender order some more shots, the song that has been playing since she made the mistake of walking in this damned place finally ends.

She exhales, ears ringing slightly, and a wave of relief drifts through her. She can do this, it’s just a night at a club with Ron and Lavender. Harry and Draco aren’t even here, thank god, if they were… well. She’d be a lot busier.

Ron and Lavender high  _ and _ drunk are half the work of tipsy Harry and Draco. They’re both messy, emotional people who barely keep it together as is, a splash of alcohol and they’re practically children.

Hermione never goes out with just Harry and Draco. At least one other person has to be there with her, to deal with the tears.

Hermione’s never been good at dealing with tears.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” The MC screams out into the crowd. 

Everyone screams back, which makes Hermione wince. Christ, it’s a small venue. Too small for this. 

“Who wants to hear that song again?” 

More screams.

Hermione scowls and grabs her purse, slinging it over her shoulder.

“I’m going to the bathroom!” She shouts to Ron. He nods, patting her shoulder as she walks by.

She starts towards the big bathroom sign, walking slow enough that Ron loses interest, and then detours, practically running towards the exit. 

Even though she wasn’t in the club for that long, barely five minutes, the cold air, the honking of cars, the scent of rain, it all hits her like a brick, making her stagger back briefly before recovering.

What makes her stagger back more, what takes longer to recover from, is crashing into Pansy Parkinson.

*

Pansy’s famous in America. Well, kind of.

She’s famous on  _ Broadway _ , which is a very different thing than being famous on TV or something, mostly because the only people who recognize her on the street are theater geeks. 

Not that she doesn’t like the theater geeks, no, she absolutely  _ loves _ them. After all, they are why she can afford a one-bedroom in Manhattan. 

But they don’t get her invited to Fashion Week, or the Met Gala, or the Oscars. 

(Though she had won three Tony’s in her ten years in New York.)

But there was always a lull.

Always a job she didn’t get, always a part she didn’t look right for. 

Two months ago, there had been a lull.

She had pattered around New York, bored as shit and worried about rent, and then, a week ago, had received a call from her agent.  _ New job,  _ he had said,  _ lots of money,  _ he had added.

But rehearsals don’t start for four months, and she can’t stay in New York jobless for that long.

Pansy had subletted her apartment, bought a plane ticket, and two days after the call she was in London and staying until the end of March.

She’s teaching an acting class at the Globe theatre, the only thing she could find on short notice, and is supposed to check into her flat right away, just to let the owner know she made it okay, but when she gets in the cab, a different address slips out of her mouth. 

(She really hopes they haven’t moved since the last time she was in town.)

They haven’t.

“Draco!” She yells when the door swings open, revealing her pointy, pale friend.

“Pansy?” He asks, and for a second he looks shocked, but then his face melts into an ecstatic grin, and he’s pulled her into a hug before she can blink.

A laugh bubbles out of her as she hugs him back, swaying back and forth.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmurs, squeezing him tightly.

“I’ve missed you too,” he responds, voice squeaking slightly.

“Draco! Who is it?”

Pansy pulls away, grinning. “Is that dear Harry I hear?”

“He’s going to be delighted to see you,” Draco says, turning. “Harry! It’s Pansy!”

Harry pops around the corner, shirtless, and Pansy whistles at the tan abs staring at her. She reaches her hand out and drifts her fingers over his stomach. “My, my, Mister Potter--”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Draco snaps, pushing her through the door and closing it behind her. He disappears into the kitchen.

“I refuse to hug you when you’re shirtless. It’s a matter of principle,” she tells Harry.

He rolls his eyes but leans down so she can kiss him on the cheek. Her lips scrape on his stubble, he’s never been very clean shaven, and when she pulls away his eyes are shining.

“Draco, come get your man,” she throws behind her, squeezing Harry’s hand.

Draco comes out of the kitchen, holding two glasses of wine. He presses one into Pansy’s hand and one into Harry’s. 

“It’s been an emotional week,” Draco informs her, rolling his eyes and wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. “A student told Harry that he was the best teacher she ever had. He’s been crying about it for days.”

Harry sips at his wine, nodding along. 

“And now you’re here,” Draco says, and something in his tone puts Pansy on high alert.

She tenses as they scrutinize her, eyes sweeping and narrowed.

“I’m fine, boys, but thank you for caring,” she says nonchalantly, sipping at her wine. “There was a lull in New York.” They both nod, familiar with her loathing of the lulls. “So I came back here for a bit.”

“No auditions?” Harry asks, eyebrows slanting down.

“Not for someone who looks like me, at least. Only for blue eyed, blonde hair, blue eyed, brown hair. They’re saying ‘fair skinned’ now, instead of white.”

She shakes her head, even though her blood is boiling.

“But they love you over there,” Draco says, like that makes a difference.

Pansy shrugs. “Broadway’s still rooted in racism, Draco.” She pauses, then cocks her head. “Whatever. A couple months away, I’m teaching at the Globe, you see, and they’ll realize how superior I am, Asian or not.”

Draco and Harry nod vigorously. “Yeah, yeah, of course, Pans.”

“Anyway. How are you two?”

Draco lifts a shoulder. “The shop’s been really busy. Leading up to the holidays… lots of impulsive,  _ fuck my parents  _ sells. Just this morning I gave a young Scottish woman a beautiful tattoo of a blooming peony, right on her shoulder blade. During it, she kept going on and on about how she’s going to wear a dress to Christmas that shows this tattoo off, just to piss off her dad and step-mom.”

Pansy snorts, sipping her wine. “Well, the tattoo you gave me all those years ago still rightly pisses off my parents, so that girl went to the right place.”

Almost subconsciously, Pansy lifts a hand to the chain of pansies along her collarbone. Right after eighth year, oh so many years ago, Draco had offered to give her any tattoo she wanted. She chose a series of pink and purple pansies to rest along her collarbone, bright and rebellious and, well, almost unfairly beautiful.

During shows she has to use foundation to cover it, and multiple directors have begged her to have it removed, but she refuses.

“And you, Harry?” 

Harry shrugged. “Same old, same old. Headmistress McGonagall is implementing this new thing-- tampons in the girls bathrooms. It’s led to an uproar amongst the old-guard families, we all know the type.” He paused and sipped his wine. “And, actually, Pans, Slughorn retired finally, just last year, and his replacement, well, she’s the  _ nicest _ woman. Her name is Juno, and I think you and her would get along  _ so _ well--”

“I’m not looking to be set up, Potter,” she interjects. 

“ _ Pansy-- _ ”

“How do you know I don’t have someone back in New York?” She snaps, eyebrows arching.

Draco scoffs, the familiar scowl forming on his face. “Because you would have told me.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Awfully presumptive of you.” She swirls her wine, an uncomfortable truth settling on her. “We haven’t talked like that in a while.”

Tense silence descends on all of them, and even though it’s of Pansy’s making, she hates it so much she wants to cry.

“Anyway,” she finally murmurs. “I have a gift for both of you.”

She swivels, grabbing her purse, and pulls out two tickets, with  _ Draco Malfoy  _ and  _ Harry Potter  _ printed on them in bold letters.

“I’m the lead in this new show. It’s supposed to be the next big thing, like, even bigger than  _ Hamilton _ . It doesn’t premiere until June, and I know it’s a long ways away, but I was hoping I could convince you two to make it.” she says, pressing the tickets into Draco’s hand.

“Merlin, Pans… how much did these cost you?” 

She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. “I want you two to have the best seats.”

Draco lifts his gaze, and it’s soft and warm and Pansy’s still struck speechless by just how much they’ve all changed, because Draco used to be all angles and glares and pain, but his eyes are 

crinkling in a way they never used to, and it’s beautiful.

“What about Blaise and Gin?” Harry asks, still examining the tickets.

Pansy scoffs, taking another gulp of wine. “Please. They’re right next to you.”

Harry grins, bumping Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco’s still looking at her like that, in that silly, emotional way. 

Harry fumbles around the counter, grabbing a Muggle phone, and types in something.

“Draco, look-- ‘Pansy Parkinson, gem of Broadway, stars in  _ Glow.’  _ That’s quite impressive, that’s the first thing that came up.”

“What picture is this from?” Draco asks, angling the phone towards her.

They’ve brought up her Wikipedia page, and Draco’s pointing at the first photo shown, her in the Fanny Brice costume and wig, the same wig and dress she wore almost every day for three years.

Pansy snorts and rolls her eyes. “Guess.”

“Is this from when you were in Silly Girl?” Harry tries.

Draco arches an eyebrow and scowls at Harry, all softness gone. “It’s Goofy Girl, Harry.”

Something in Pansy’s gut burns. 

She gulps down the remains of her wine. “Okay. I think it’s time for me to go. I have to teach tomorrow and all that.”

She sets the wine glass down and pushes past Draco, who’s trying to get her to stay. 

“Pansy, come on, we haven’t seen you in so long.”

Pansy twists back around and brushes her lips over Draco’s cheek (clean shaven). “I’m okay, Draco,” she whispers against his skin. “I expect you to be front and center in June, anyway, whether you’re familiar with my groundbreaking career or not.”

Draco’s got that pinched look on his face, like he hates what just happened but knows he can’t do anything to help it.

“I’m going to be in town for a while, okay? Let’s make plans.”

It sounds empty, she knows it does, but she can’t bother to make it sound genuine, or even hopeful.

She was in  _ Funny _ Girl for two and a half years. She had met Barbra Streisand because of it. She had won a Tony for it. That one role had catapulted her into the world of theatre. And they didn’t even know the show’s name.

“Where are you staying, Pansy?” Harry asks, and his voice is soft, like he knows they fucked up but doesn’t know how to make it better.

“I have an apartment set up,” she replies, lingering in the doorway.

What is she even waiting for? ‘Sorry we didn’t watch you in your career making role’? It’s stupid. They were an entire continent away, with work and bills… she can’t expect them to drop everything just to see her in a show. Besides, it had been seven years since Funny Girl, and in a couple months they’d come see her in this new show.

She hopes.

She flips her hair and offers a smile. “Don’t worry about me, boys. I’m going to swing by tomorrow, okay? What do your schedules look like?” 

“I’m done with classes at 3,” Harry murmurs. 

Draco scowls and rolls his eyes, but answers, “I leave the shop at 4.”

She nods. “Love you both.”

She shuts the door behind her.

And it’s like, maybe in a different world, if she was a different person, she’d stand outside the door, reconsider, think a little harder, and go back in, and talk with her friends who she hasn’t seen in months, and she would forgive them for letting life get in the way.

But it’s not a different world and she’s not a different person, so she marches away the second the door clicks shut, six-inch heels clicking on the wood floor.

She goes carefully down the stairs, aware of how much it’d hurt if she fell, and pushes out the main doors.

The cold hits her tenfold when she leaves the building.

The bar that she used to sing at is three blocks away. She’ll just go there, get rip-roaringly drunk. She’s teaching an acting class tomorrow at the Globe, but that’s not until, like, 4:00, so she’ll be fine.

She struts down the street, uncomfortably aware of her short dress as the wind picks up, fierce and biting.

Lights blink out at her when she gets close enough,  _ Panther  _ in migraine-inducing white _ ,  _ and she jogs the last few feet in her heels, desperate to get away from the cold.

She swings the door open, already getting hit with a blast of warm air, but just as she steps through the doorway she collides with someone.

She stumbles back a few steps, already scowling, preparing a quick and easy insult to lob at this stranger.

But then she looks up and it’s not a stranger at all.

*

Hermione’s speechless. Which she isn’t very often, as a lawyer, you see. There’s always something to say, always some angle you can warp, exploit, mess with. But she’s speechless.

After all, it had been _ ten years _ .

Ten ordinary, calm years. 

Ten years of opening up her own law firm, of firsts, of failures and delightful victories, of making the Daily Prophet’s list for Minister of Magic hopefuls.

Ten years of slowly moving apartments, of failed relationships, of visiting her parents and lying to them about her social life.

(Don’t worry about me, Mum, I have loads of friends, I’m not focusing too much on work, I balance my time. And all that shit.)

Then she saw her.

It had been ten years since they had spoken.

Ten years.

How many days was that? 

365 by ten, not counting leap years. Well, you had to count leap years. 365 times eight, plus 366 plus 366? 3652 days. 

She wasn’t going to even try to do the math for the number of minutes since they had spoken.

Pansy looks about the same. She hasn't aged horribly, even if Hermione was hoping for it the tiniest bit. She has more lines around her mouth, miniscule bags under her eyes, but she still looks young. Not as vibrant as when they were in their twenties, hopelessly in love and--

But then again, a life on stage, in the public eye… Hermione muses that it probably demands the best from you.

Her skin is still tanned, her eyelids are still lined with black (though she’s gotten better at it), her lips are painted dark purple. Her tattoo is on full display, and the flashing lights of the club catch on it, amplify it. Her eyelashes are thicker, they might be fake. Her hair is different.

Instead of a straight bob and bangs, it’s layered, choppy, her bangs are straighter, she used to curl them every morning. Her hair is dyed a darker shade of black.

(Probably to conceal grays, Hermione thinks.)

Hermione’s seen her photo in every show poster, because Pansy’s always the star, she’s always front and center, and the playbill always makes its way back to London.

But it has been ten bloody years. Pansy moved to America right after they broke up. 

Hermione’s always been faintly aware of Pansy’s brief returns to London, but no one dares mention it to her. Which is how she prefers it. Usually.

But if someone told her about this, ‘Pansy’s back and she’s going to the clubs!’, she wouldn’t have left her office tonight. Or any night, really.

But, Merlin.

Here she is.

No one warned her.

*

Hermione looks so different.

The last time Pansy saw her, like  _ really _ saw Hermione, her dark hair was in small waves, short and flattish, her face was lined with sloppy lipstick and eyeliner, she rarely dressed up. Because that’s who Hermione was. She didn’t care about those types of things. She was focused on the good things in this world.

But now…

Hermione’s hair is in box braids or something of that sort, masses of them piled up in two buns on her head and the rest cascading down her back, almost touching her butt. She’s in this dress… it’s yellow and has little daisies on it and when Hermione shifts uncomfortably, the hem drifts along the cement. No makeup. Not obviously, anyway.

Her dark skin is lined, probably from years of stress (Minister of Magic hopeful, Pansy had read). Hell, Hermione was stressed even before she stepped into the public eye as the Wizarding World’s first lawyer willing to represent those imprisoned in Azkaban.

(The MLE is fucking corrupt, she used to rant to Pansy, deep into the night, with the blankets curled around them and the fireplace flickering out.)

Her dark eyes shutter, dart around, like she’s looking for help. 

Pansy doesn’t blame her.

It’s been ten years, what do you say? 

_ Wanna catch up over coffee?  _ No. Ew.

_ How’s it going?  _ Ew. No.

_ I’m sorry?  _ Pansy would rather die.

“Granger,” Pansy forces out, thanking Broadway a thousand times over for helping her keep her voice steady.

That snaps Hermione out of her trance, and her dumbfounded look immediately transforms into a glare.

“Pansy.”

Pansy bristles. It’s just fucking like her to use her name like that, to feign familiarity when they both know they are so fucking  _ far _ from that--

“If you’ll excuse me,” Hermione murmurs, gesturing for Pansy to move. “I’d like to leave.”

Pansy grits her teeth and steps aside, getting hit with a wave of coconut as Hermione walks by. 

She used to smell like citrus.

Pansy shoves the thought away, locking it somewhere, deep in her mind, and marches inside, fuming.

She immediately spots a yelling Ron Weasley, who Hermione was obviously here with, followed by a stumbling, dancing Lavender Brown. So that hasn’t changed.

Pansy suddenly wants to leave.

But she can’t leave right now, because Hermione might still be nearby, or going to another club close by, and Pansy would rather stay here and watch Lavender and Ron dance and hold onto each other like she and Hermione used to than actually run into Hermione again.

“Two shots of tequila,” she mutters to the bartender.

It’s two hours later when she stumbles out of the bar, head fuzzy and warm, and Apparates back to her apartment. 

She falls into bed feeling sick, and not because of the alcohol.

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

Draco and Potter bickered all the fucking time.

And Blaise was no help, the absolute boy, because all he did was talk to Weasley about chess and quidditch, and ignored the fact that Pansy was dying having to listen to all of their funny little arguments and shit.

Because, okay, here’s what they would do.

They would argue for Merlin knows how long until one of them said something sappy like ‘ _ I can’t believe my boyfriend thinks Viktor Krum is overrated’  _ and then the other would be like ‘ _ boyfriend _ ?” and then they’d kiss and get all teary-eyed and Pansy would have to excuse herself to go vomit.

The only reprieve was Granger, because she seemed just as disgusted as Pansy. Yeah, she’d look busy scribbling out an essay, but then Potter would say something about sex later that night and her gaze would dart up, looking disgusted that such a thing was said in her presence.

“Harry,” she’d say, “Pansy and I are sitting right here.”

A gentle, subtle reprimand. 

He’d blush and Draco would say something snappy that Pansy would pretend to laugh at, and then they’d leave.

Then Granger would make quick eye contact with Pansy, nod, and then go back to her homework.

Pansy was still working up the courage to thank her for getting them to stop. Whenever she thought of doing it… it just seemed too much, so she stopped herself.

But whatever. If Granger was as smart as everyone said she was, she knew.

Unfortunately, at the moment, it was late Sunday, and Pansy had an essay due the next morning. Blaise was off somewhere ‘playing Quidditch’ and Weasley was with Brown, so it was just the four of them, and if anything, today’s bickering was the worst it had ever been.

“Bloody Merlin, Harry, do you ever shut up?” Draco snapped, scowling, face flushed, voice filling up the entire eighth year common room.

Pansy groaned inwardly, desperately trying to tune them out so she could finish her essay. 

All she needed was one more paragraph--

“Oh, I most certainly do, Draco, but maybe you don’t notice because whenever I’m not talking, you’re babbling on about something,” Potter retorted, rather weakly in Pansy’s opinion.

“I do not babble, Potter,” Draco responded, waving a quill in his face.

“You most certainly do.”

“Give me  _ one _ bloody example--”

“Christ, boys,” Granger interrupted, leveling a fierce glare at both of them.

“We’re not doing anything, Hermione!” Potter replied, scowling slightly.

“Other than never shutting the fuck up, yeah,” Pansy muttered to herself, loud enough so Potter and Draco could hear it.

“ _ Pansy _ !” Draco whined.

Granger huffed and started gathering her things.

“Where’re you going?” Potter asked, that dopey look on his face again.

“Somewhere quiet,” she said sharply, pointedly looking at Pansy.

It took Pansy a second to realize the meaning.

“Me too,” she echoed, standing and sweeping her materials into her bag. “See you lovebirds later.”

She made a face at Draco and followed Granger out of the eighth year common room.

“I’m going to the library,” Granger muttered as they walked along the corridor that would lead them out of the eighth year’s area.

Pansy didn’t answer, relishing the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floors. It sounded so… grown up. 

(She didn’t know why that made her heart thud in a certain way. She still doesn’t.)

“Are you coming with?” Granger tried again, eyes darting to Pansy every few seconds.

Pansy chanced a look at Granger.

Her dark hair was tied up, the tight curls catching the light in a nice way. Her eyes were astonishingly black, like they sucked in light instead of reflected it.

She was in sensible flats, her jumper and skirt in Gryffindor colors. 

It was all so…  _ Granger  _ Pansy nearly couldn’t take it.

Some people didn’t change.

Pansy lifted a shoulder, cocking her head slightly. “I won’t bother you, Granger. I have work to do too.”

Granger snorted slightly. “As long as you don’t talk about fucking in front of me, I’ll be fine.”

A laugh bubbled out of Pansy, surprisingly. “My goodness, Granger! Why not? Will it offend your delicate, virgin ears?”

Granger rolled her eyes, scowling. “I just don’t want to hear about penetration when I’m trying to do my essay.”

“Merlin knows how you study with Draco and Potter around then,” Pansy mused, biting back a grin.

“Christ, I know, right? It’s either they’re bickering or they’re slobbering over each other. I can barely take it.”

Pansy smirked. “It’s their defense mechanism. Don’t worry, in a few weeks they’ll finally be bloody comfortable with each other and it’ll stop.”

“That’s awfully perceptive of you, Parkinson,” Granger muttered, lips curving up.

“My goodness! The long awaited approval of Hermione bloody Granger! Thank Merlin!” Pansy exclaimed loudly, catching the eyes of a few students walking nearby.

Granger snickered, taking the dig surprisingly well. “You’re so very welcome.”

Pansy pressed her lips together in a firm line, resolutely  _ not _ smiling. 

“So, what essay are you working on?”

*

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s been a week since Hermione saw Pansy, and all she’s bloody thought about since then has been Pansy, Pansy, Pansy, Pansy fucking Parkinson.

She doesn’t want to, okay? She wants to focus on this case, she wants to focus on the upcoming election for Minister of Magic (if Daniels wins, she’ll be a shoo-in for the next election, but if Marcus does she’ll have to wait a bit longer to announce her candidacy), and she doesn’t fucking want to think about her fucking ex who she hasn’t even seen in ten fucking years, but here she is, sitting at work, thinking about Pansy Parkinson.

“Ms Granger?”

Hermione’s head snaps up, pulling her out of her thoughts, and she realizes a bit belatedly that there has been an intern standing there for quite a bit.

“Um… it’s just… I have a doctor’s appointment in a half hour.”

“Okay. And how is that my problem?”

“My work still isn’t done--”

“Why isn’t it done?” Hermione interrupts, dropping her gaze and getting back to the pile in front of her.

“Well, I took on most of Lemmon’s work load when he decided to get his surgery--”

Hermione raises a hand, stopping the intern in their tracks, while she inhales… exhales… and does not think about that stupid fucking paralegal who has set them back  _ days _ just because of their poor fucking planning--

“Just go.”

She doesn’t look up to see whether or not the intern has complied.

Whatever. She has a lot of work to do.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the door open, the intern scurry out, and the door close behind them. 

It’s only then does she stand, feeling so incredibly weighted down, and walk over to their desk, grab all of the work they left behind, and take it back to hers.

She feels so old.

All the interns and paralegals and even that new lawyer who just joined her firm a month ago file out a little bit later, but she still determinedly goes through the work.

And still she thinks of Pansy.

(She looked good.  Like, really good.  Like, fuck-the-rest-of-them-I’m-beautiful-and-I-know-it good.)

Hermione had long ago abandoned dresses that short, but nothing, not even age, could stop Pansy Parkinson from doing what she wanted.

Hermione learned that a long time ago.

She also learned a long time ago that thinking of Pansy Parkinson, in any way shape or form, whether it was the Pansy she had fallen in love with or the Pansy who had broke her heart and left for America an hour later, either one, or any of the Pansy’s she had concocted only in her mind, thinking of them did no one good, especially her. 

She shakes it off and goes back to her work. 

It doesn’t do her any good, so why does she do it?

She probably gets about two more minutes of work in before she’s forced to stop by a knock on her office door.

“Come in,” She calls, trying to keep the annoyed note out of her voice.

The door swings open, and she sags in relief when she sees Harry, with an armful of takeout.

“Thought you could use this,” he says, closing the door with his foot and collapsing into the chair she kept opposite hers.

“Thank you, Harry. You’re truly a lifesaver,” Hermione murmurs absentmindedly, yanking the highlighter cap off with her teeth and scribbling out a few more notes. 

She’ll eat when she finishes this--

“No, no-- ‘Mione! It’s fine. It can wait twenty minutes, okay?” He snatches the document from her, fixing her with a scolding glare.

“Did you learn that look from Draco?” She asks, lips curving up, allowing him to take the rest of the pages from her.

Harry rolls his eyes, slumping back into the chair. “Yes, for your information.”

She snorts. “Wonderful.”

She opens the bag Harry places in front of her, delighted to see Chinese food, in all of its glorious elegance.

“Christ, Harry, this is superb.”

He grins around a mouthful of rice. “Yes, well, someone reminded me that it's your favorite.”

Hermione smiles instinctively, before an unsettling feeling starts gnawing at her stomach. She clears her throat and reaches for the chopsticks next to Harry, attempting nonchalance. “Who?”

Harry blinks. “Who?”

“Who reminded you it’s my favorite? Draco doesn’t know that.”

Harry’s face flushes, eyes darting down and fixating on his food. “Are, uh, are you sure? You-- um, you never mentioned it to him? Because it was-- it  _ was _ Draco who told me, so, um. Yeah.”

Hermione inhales, exhales, finds that one gouge under her desk that she can scratch at when she’s stressed.

God. Fucking Pansy.

“Pansy told you, didn’t she?” She asks, knowing the answer, voice flat and emotionless.

Harry just stares at her, eyes wide and face red. “I… um--”

“I wasn’t aware you had seen her yet. But, of course, it makes sense, you are her friend.”

Harry blinks. 

She stares him down, sweeping her eyes over his scruffy beard and hair and green eyes that mesmerize behind those new silver frames Draco bought him. 

(When he had first been seen publicly in those new frames, it made the front page of the Daily Prophet. Draco’s never been more pleased.)

He starts scratching at the back of his neck, where the stress hives are inevitably popping up. 

(He had almost cried when he first started getting those.  _ Age _ , the Healer had said.  _ Bloody fucking likely,  _ Harry had replied.)

Hermione rolls her eyes, picking at her food, trying to quell the wave of frustration rising in her.

She doesn’t succeed.

“You know, it really would have been nice to know that Pansy was back in town, like a warning, you know?  _ Do _ you know about those, Harry? Warnings are something you give people when, say, their ex is back in town. It would have been really nice to have a  _ warning _ , so I didn’t go out and run into her on the bloody  _ street _ .”

Harry sighs. “Hermione, I--”

She raises a hand, silencing him. 

Pansy had nearly fallen down laughing when she first did that. Ron and Harry had been bickering all dinner, but a simple raised hand and they shut up immediately. Draco was outraged, mostly because ‘he couldn’t believe’ that ‘his boyfriend was so goddamn submissive’, which led to a myriad of wonderful, juvenile jokes.

Hermione had never seen Pansy laugh that hard. 

She bites back the urge to collapse onto the floor and sob,  _ not _ because of Pansy, and fixes Harry with a stare.

“So,  _ Pansy _ told you that this place is my favorite?”

He nods.

She wants to throw her food off the table and scream about how Pansy doesn’t  _ get _ to know those things about her anymore, she’s not fucking allowed, that the people who should know about them are her best friends, not her ex who she hasn’t fucking talked to in ten years. 

Instead, she just grits her teeth and continues eating.

Seeing Pansy is doing awful things to her brain.

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

It’s loud in the corridor. Too fucking loud, in Hermione’s opinion, but then again, she might just be annoyed because class was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, but Slughorn still hasn’t opened the doors.

Hermione tips her head back and lets it thud against the wall. 

Why does she even bother? Draco and Harry are off somewhere, taking advantage of the extra time ( _ send a Patronus for me or something, I don’t know, when Slughorn finally gets here. Don’t give me that look! _ ), she hasn’t seen Blaise all day (or Ginny), and Ron and Lavender are at the other end of the hallway, the other end of the crowd, whispering and giggling into each other’s ears. 

It all seems so useless, so fucking useless. Even the teacher didn’t show up.

She has the grades. She has the job offers. Why is she even fucking  _ here _ ?

“Granger, where the bloody fuck is Draco?” 

Hermione sighs, preparing herself.

“Off somewhere with Harry,” she replies, lifting her head and turning so she’s making eye contact with Pansy.

“What about Blaise?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Hello to you too.”

Pansy scowls, even though them being left alone together is a commonality now, and slumps against the wall next to Hermione.

She’s wearing dark blue lipstick today, eyelashes fluffed and cheekbones prominent. Half of her hair is down, the other half pulled up into a bun.

It’s all very attractive.

Hermione wrinkles her nose and looks away. Christ, thinking of Pansy Parkinson as outright attractive... Slughorn needs to open up the damn doors.

“Why are you so late?” Hermione asks impulsively, bored out of her mind.

“Doesn’t matter.” She pauses. “Besides, I’m perfectly on time, as far as Slughorn knows.  _ He’s _ the one who’s late.”

Hermione’s lips twitch up. “Well, I guess I can’t argue with you there.”

They lapse into silence, standing side by side, and Hermione’s surprised to find that she isn’t quite as ‘burn-the-entire-place-down-fuck-them-all’ with someone next to her, even if that someone happens to be Pansy Parkinson.

Ten minutes later and Slughorn still hasn’t arrived, but the corridor is packed even fuller with students, all milling around, so loud and rowdy Hermione can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

A yell draws Hermione’s attention over to the end of the hall, and a quiet laugh spills out of her when she sees Blaise, pushing through students, all 6 feet 5 inches of him, scowling and swearing.

“Such a boy,” Hermione hears Pansy mutter, and it’s a fight to keep the smirk off her face.

He finally reaches them, sweaty and panting. “Wh-- why are we all out here?”

Hermione stays silent, figuring Pansy would rather rip into him.

Sure enough, she’s right.

“You know, Blaise, I recognize that I’ve made some disparaging jokes in the past, mainly about how fast you are in the bedroom, but Merlin! I take it all back! Obviously, you were able to last long enough with Miss Weasley that you are now twenty five minutes late to class! That’s quite impressive, you know.”

Blaise scowls, but before he can retort, Hermione’s grinning and, “She’s a lucky one, she is,” is slipping out of her mouth before she can stop it.

Pansy barks out a laugh while Blaise just blinks in surprise, like he had no idea Hermione was capable of that.

Hermione manages to temper her grin into a self-satisfied smirk.

Although all that effort is immediately down the drain when Pansy bumps her with her hip, smiling in a way that makes Hermione’s stomach flutter. “Very nice.”

Blaise groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin, you’re friends now?”

Pansy slings an arm over Hermione’s shoulder, smiling dangerously at Blaise. “You better watch out, Zabini.”

Slughorn comes half-jogging down the hall then, huffing and puffing. “Sorry folks!”

Blaise exhales shakily, still sweating a bit, and joins the crowd gathering near the door. Pansy untangles herself from Hermione and soon follows.

Hermione slings off a quick Patronus behind her, alerting Harry and Draco, and follows Pansy and Blaise into the classroom. 

She takes a seat towards the front, already bored out of her mind, and something in her stomach stirs when Pansy willingly takes a seat next to her.

“You’re not going to force me to take notes, are you?” Pansy asks, resting her head in her palm.

Hermione rolls her eyes and looks away. “God, no. You’re much too useless for that.”

Pansy laughs again.

*

Pansy’s first class goes well. 

It’s a bunch of high school students, all stereotypical theatre kids, and if she wasn’t as resilient as she is, she would have collapsed from annoyance.

It’s like that American show Glee, except tenfold.

_ Draw from your own emotions,  _ she advises before two kids do an emotional scene. 

_ I don’t have any emotions,  _ one of the fussy little fuckers responds, a smirk on her face, titters coming from the kids behind her.

_ Well, then, you’re going to have to find a different career, Miss, because acting is all emotion, and, on top of that, no one has time for angsty teenaged comments.  _ The girl blinks.  _ And, let me just give you a piece of advice, no agent will take you on if you say things like that. We have a saying for people like you in the acting business… hm, what is it? Ah, yes, unemployed. _

The girl’s face contorts, like she’s trying not to cry, and very briefly does Pansy feel bad, but then she doesn’t.

_ There you go,  _ she says, stone faced,  _ emotion. _

The scene goes very well.

At 6:30, she says goodbye to the last of them, finds an empty alleyway, and Apparates to Draco and Harry’s.

“Hello, boys!” She calls as she lands in their living room, slightly wobbly from the travel.

They both jump ten feet in the air, which is tremendously rewarding, but then immediately set upon her with questions.

“How was the class?”

“Were your students nice?”

“Did you bring any wine?”

“Draco! Did you like it?”

She waves them both away, pressing a random bottle of wine that she swiped from a store earlier into Draco’s hand before collapsing quite dramatically on the couch.

“Teaching is exhausting,” she tells Harry, like he doesn’t know.

He grins, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “How long do these classes go for?”

“Two a week for three months.”

Harry whistles and settles on the chair opposite her. “I mean, I do eight a day, five days a week, for nine months, but yeah. That sounds exhausting.”

She half scowls, more amused than insulted. “Yes, well, aren’t you a hero.”

“He’s quite literally a hero, Pans,” Draco says, striding into the room with his usual confidence, three levitated wine glasses sailing smoothly alongside him.

Pansy sighs, accepting her glass when Draco flicks it towards her. “Sometimes I forget. It’s so easy, with this dopey face staring at me all the time. Who could imagine this idiot is the Savior of the Wizarding World?”

She taps Harry’s nose, smirking at him as he pulls a face.

“Aren’t you two so cute?” Draco teases, shoving at Pansy until she makes room for him on the couch. “But, seriously, how was it?”

Pansy ignores her knee jerk reaction (to mock him for caring) and instead launches into a detailed, minute by minute description that soon has him groaning.

“Highlights, please.”

Harry glares at him. “Shut it, Draco. It’s Pansy’s first day of teaching! It’s very exciting!”

Pansy smiles smugly at Draco, who just scowls in response.

“ _ Thank you _ , Harry. Now, where was I? Ah yes, well, it was so weird, they knew all about me.  _ What was it like winning your first Tony? What’s Barbra like? Is Tony Mallecko a good kisser?  _ All very unnerving.”

Draco snorts. “Tony Mallecko?”

“My old co-star.”

“Well, is he a good kisser?” Harry asks, grinning.

Pansy lifts a casual shoulder. “Fine. Not memorable, at least. He was so shocked when he found out I was gay, he said to me,  _ wow, so you really are a good actor!  _ And I said to him,  _ what do you mean?  _ And he goes,  _ you’re pretending to be attracted to me!  _ And then I made him quite uncomfortable, because I told him,  _ all of my acting prowess comes from the eighteen years of acting straight. _ ”

They both laugh, an expected response, and Pansy continues, hitting only the highlights, as Draco had asked, talking about the inflated egos and the autographs and the forced tears and how she is kind of, slightly looking forward to the next class.

Harry yells in triumph at that, whacking her on the arm. “What did I tell you?”

“Nothing!” She replies, scowling at him. “You didn’t even know I was going to teach until last night!”

Harry scoffs. “Please, I subconsciously knew, and I was subconsciously guiding you to your best teaching self.”

“Merlin, Potter.”

“Don’t bully him, Pans, he needs to think he’s doing something good. Right, Harry?” Draco smirks, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Pansy forces a smile at the sight of them, shoving down the wave of bitterness that threatens to overwhelm her.

“Enough about me,” she says airily. “How were your days?” 

“The usual,” Draco says, waving around a nonchalant hand. “I gave a lion tattoo. And then a snake, which amused me. Also a itty bitty flower for this eighteen year old on her birthday. She was so nervous, it was almost hilarious.”

As Draco talks, he and Harry move closer together, arms around waists and noses in necks and heads on shoulders. It makes Pansy’s heart clench, reminding her uncomfortably of her and Hermione fucking Granger.

Unbidden, an image of Hermione, sprawled out across her lap, laughing, giggling, barely holding up a book and trying to read aloud, while Pansy makes snappy comments about the prose, it all flashes in her mind, making her grip her wine glass tighter than necessary.

She pushes it all out, throws it out, focuses on how Harry is murmuring about bringing food to someone.

No, not just ‘someone’, Hermione fucking Granger.

Pansy sets down her wine glass louder than she needs to, arching a single eyebrow at Draco and Harry’s startled faces.

“You can talk about Hermione in front of me, you know.”

Harry blinks, mouth hanging open like a fish, cheeks flushed.

Draco recovers faster.

“We know that,” he says, falling into that signature scowl.

“She’s still working, isn’t she?” Pansy asks, already knowing the answer, clenching her jaw.

(It wasn't too hard to guess, Hermione is always working.)

“Is that Chinese place down the street still open?” She asks, eyes locking onto Draco’s, daring him to say something.

Harry clears his throat and nods.

“Bring her something from there. It’s her favorite.”

Everything about it burns a hole in Pansy’s chest, simmering and gouging and making her clench her fists from the pain. 

Harry slowly rises from his chair, nodding slowly. “Okay… uh, I should go do that now, then. I guess.”

Pansy rises too. “Walk me out?”

“You don’t have to leave, Pans,” Draco murmurs, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Harry will be back soon enough.”

Harry nods, face still flushed.

“Merlin, you two treat me like I’m made of glass or something. It’s late, I have a lot to do tomorrow. Sometimes it’s unrelated to whatever you boys are talking about.” She reaches up and pats Harry on his cheek. “You’re very kind, Potter.”

He nods once, twice, three times, like he still is unsure of where he stands. Pansy loops her arm through his and starts towards the door, gently leading him. 

“How’s your medication going?” She asks, smirking slightly.

“My medication?”

“Your Viagra, Harry, obviously.”

He scowls, shoving her a little bit. “Wanker.”

Pansy gasps, clutching Harry as she pretends to fall, teetering on her heels.

“Harry, don’t kill our dear friend,” Draco calls from the couch.

Pansy snickers, righting herself just as they reach the door. 

“Harry, Draco, thank you ever so much for your hospitality. I love you both very much. And I’ll be swinging by again tomorrow.”

She slings her purse over her shoulder, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Harry and a wave from Draco, who looks like he’s about to fall asleep, even though it’s barely past seven.

“Is he okay?” She murmurs to Harry.

He sighs, shrugging, and Pansy sees a flash of concern, exhaustion. “His mom’s been calling a lot.”

Pansy raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“She wants us to move out of the city, into the Manor. Ever since Lucius passed, she’s been lonely, but recently… she’s been more obvious about her feelings. It’s… weighing on him.”

Harry leans against the door, eyebrows slanted down, eyes fixed on Draco.

“Well, you’re not going to, are you? He’ll die in that godforsaken Manor.”

Harry’s gaze darts to hers, a small smile growing on his face. “Merlin, you act like I’m eighteen and just got involved with him. I know, Pansy, we have been married for fifteen years.”

She smirks, softly batting his elbow. “I know that. I was the Maid of Honor after all. And the organizer, and I did walk Draco down the aisle, and--”

“I’m aware of all you did. Merlin forbid you let us forget it.”

He grins, that dopey, idiotic grin, and for a second Pansy’s  back in Hogwarts, standing in the eighth year common room, and she’s just made her first joke about Harry Potter (that’s not meant to sting) and he looks at her, with  _ that _ grin, and she begins to feel like everything will be okay, that she will be forgiven, that Draco won’t be hurt, and she can start to relax.

But then she’s back, and his grin has melted into something more worried, more thoughtful, and she can just barely recover fast enough.

“Goodbye, Potter.”

She swings out the door, taking a deep breath in, out, holding it open for him.

They walk down the stairs and out of the building in silence. He goes left, she goes right.

And as she walks out into the brisk night, she feels content for the first time in a while. The feeling bubbles in her chest, spilling over, until she’s smiling at no one.

Of course, that feeling only lasts for a millisecond.

“Heeeeeeyyyyy, pretty lady!”

She swears under her breath and keeps walking, smile sliding off her face, barely managing not to cringe as a drunken man swerves into her path, stumbling and tripping over himself.

“Ma’am-- Miss? Miss, don’t walk away from me! Hellooooo!”

He lurches after her, and she picks up the pace, the familiar feeling of anger and fear and frustration mixing in her stomach. 

She needs to get to a more populated area, instead of this deserted street. 

Her wand’s in her bag, so is any money she has. But it’s only Wizarding money, and who knows if this man is a Muggle or not. 

She really hopes he is a Muggle. Less dangerous that way.

“You’ve a very nice ass, you know that?”

She turns the corner quickly, fists clenched, and nearly falls over from relief when she sees a bus stop a block away. There’s a group of three women gathered around it, huddled together, obviously waiting for the next bus to arrive.

Pansy picks up the pace.

“Stop walking! Hey! I’m talking to you! Ungrateful bitch!”

His yell catches the attention of the women, and Pansy lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding as they all perk up and start slowly walking towards her.

The man starts yelling again, but Pansy tunes him out, waving to the women.

_ Help me. _

“Minnie?” One of them calls, jogging a couple steps towards her.

Pansy can’t run in her heels, but she tries her best, meeting the girl halfway, something snapping in her when the girl grabs her hand and shoves her behind her, into the arms of the other two.

“There you are! It’s been ages, we were getting worried.”

Pansy plays along, exhaling shakily. “Sorry, I got caught up.”

The drunk man staggers closer, and in the streetlight Pansy can see vomit all over the front of his coat, straw colored hair matted onto his forehead.

“Ladies-- ladies, nice to see you. If I could just have a word with this one over here--”

He reaches for Pansy, cold hand wrapping around her wrist.

“Let go of me,” she says in a low, dangerous voice, trying to pull away.

“Don’t be difficult!”

His nails dig into her skin, and the girls around her start yelling as he yanks her forward and slams her into the wall of the bus stop.

A yelp tears out of her when her head hits the glass, elbows knocking against each other as she tries to twist out his grasp.

Merlin. Fucking men.

Okay. Think.

She can’t get her wand out, her purse slipped out of her grasp when he grabbed her, plus she’s assuming this idiot and those girls are Muggles, so wand-use is forbidden anyway.

So she has to deal with this herself.

“I just want to speak to you, lady--  _ fuck _ !”

She twists, kneeing him in the groin. He yelps, releasing her and staggers back, eyes blazing.

Her father had ordered her to take self defence classes when she was younger, and although that had to have been at least twenty five years ago now, it all comes rushing back with a kind of sick thrill.

She swings around, boxing his ear, and he doubles over, groaning, and she uses the opportunity to kick him again, heel colliding with his nose.

It’s enough to knock him over for good, and he falls flat on his ass, laying out half in the sidewalk  and half in the street, chest heaving with half sobs.

“Bloody prick,” she spits, kicking him again, square in the ribs.

“Do ya know him?” One of the girls asks, and it takes Pansy a second to register the thick, Irish accent. 

“No. Just started following me home,” Pansy mutters. She shakes her arms out, inhaling, exhaling, trying to get rid of the weird, jittery electric feeling coursing through her veins.

“He’s a right bloody fuck, isn’t he?” One of the other girls says, in a matching accent. “Awfully insistent. Though I guess this is quite the story to bring back home.”

“Siobhan!” Her friend snaps. “That’s rude! She’s just been through quite a traumatic event! It isn’t a ‘story’ for you!”

Siobhan gasps, pink lined mouth falling open in horror. She turns to Pansy, clutching one of her hands. “Christ, I’m sorry! That was so offensive of me!”

Despite herself, Pansy’s lips curve up. “No issue. I promise. Have you seen my purse?”

The girls swivel, scanning the ground. A few moments pass, then one of them cries out, pulling her purse out from a bush. 

“Fuck, it’s got some blood on it.”

She passes it over to Pansy, who cringes slightly as she runs her hands over the fabric, ripped up by thorns and stained with the man’s blood.

“Shit. I bought this in New York.” She doesn’t mean to say it, the hollow feeling in her chest betraying her, but before she can feel even slightly embarrassed by the admission, the girls are talking.

“Oh! We love New York! We just came from there.”

“Chelsea’s so pretty-- that's where we stayed.”

“It’s a great place,” Pansy replies absentmindedly. “But anyway, thank you all for helping. I really don’t know what would’ve happened if you all weren’t here.”

The girls giggle. “I don’t know, you appeared to take care of him all by yourself.”

Pansy sweeps her eyes over the girls, trying really hard not to be rude. They have to be 15 years younger than her, and she feels a strong urge to lecture them about being safe, despite the events that just occurred, and that they kept her more safe than she could’ve herself. 

She lifts a shoulder casually. “I really didn’t expect him to grab me. Everything after that was pure instinct.”

“You don’t have to brag!” They giggle again, and the last of the adrenaline leaves Pansy’s system, leaving her very, very tired.

“Can I give you my number?” One of the girls asks, Siobhan she thinks, looking suddenly very serious. “Just in case you have any more trouble.”

Pansy nods, even though she doesn’t have a Muggle phone, but she figures it would be easier to just accept rather than try to decline.

“Do ya wanna stay with us until the bus comes?”

Pansy smiles, and murmurs, “I live a block away, I’ll be fine from here. Have a nice night, ladies.”

They look a little unsure, but let her go, smiling and waving goodbye.

Knowing their eyes are on her, Pansy waits until she’s out of sight and earshot to Apparate, landing in her apartment with a ragged breath.

Not knowing exactly why but too tired to question it, she picks up her wand and fire-calls the only Chinese place in the area, the place where she directed Harry to earlier. 

“Can I have a number 23, please,” she says tiredly, distantly thinking about how many times she had said that before.  _ Don’t forget the extra dumplings!  _ Rings in her head, in Hermione’s posh voice. “Extra dumplings with that, too,” she forces out, and the second she ends the call she’s devolving into tears, the ghost of the man’s touch sweeping over her.

*

“Daniels is up by 3 points.”

“That’s not enough, especially this close to the election,” Hermione says quietly, a headache pounding away behind her ears.

Her campaign manager, a woman by the name of Sydney, sits across from her, holding what seems like a thousand documents, and shrugs.

“Listen, he’s a good candidate, who has a good team, he’ll pull through. From there, you’ll have a perfect opening to announce your candidacy, okay? You’re young, you’re black, you’re gay, you’re a woman… it’s all very exciting to young voters, and especially after a couple years of white- guy Daniels, you’re going to be a shoo-in.”

“And what if Marcus actually manages to pull through?” Hermione asks, slightly annoyed at being so easily categorized, already tired at the prospect of the polls categorizing her in the exact same way.

“Well, then you’re going to be running against him as an incumbent, and he’ll be much harder to beat than Daniels. We can try, but…”

“It won’t be enough. We’ll have to wait until he’s out of office, which can take 4-8 years.”

Sydney nods.

“Okay. Well, just keep watching the numbers.”

Sydney smiles slightly. “And you just watch what you’re doing, who you’re hanging out with, all that. Be careful, Ms. Granger.”

“Of course,” Hermione murmurs. 

Sydney gathers her things and leaves, giving Hermione about two seconds of peace before her assistant pokes his head in. 

“You have a… uh, client, I think.”

“A client? Here?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes at him. “All my clients are currently in Azkaban.”

He shrugs. “I’ll show her in.”

“Fucking idiot,” Hermione mutters under her breath, gathering up the documents Sydney gave her and storing them away in her ‘POLITICS SHIT’ folder with a wave of her wand.

And she has less than five seconds to prepare herself before Pansy fucking Parkinson is marching through the door, looking absolutely apoplectic, clutching a folder so hard it’s tearing.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asks, standing and giving her her best glare.

“Oh shove it, Granger. I need your help.”

“What a nice way to ask,” Hermione fires back, headache growing exponentially worse. 

Pansy tosses the folder onto her desk, stepping back and crossing her arms, foot tapping rapidly, tension radiating off of her.

“What’s this?” Hermione asks, chancing a look at Pansy. She looks awful. Exhausted, worried. Angry.

“Take a fucking look.”

“Thank you for asking so nicely.”

“Oh just shove it and  _ look _ .”

Hermione sits, biting down on a retort and instead opens the folder, letting out a low, long whistle when she sees the words LAWSUIT in big, printed letters.

“You’re getting sued?”

Pansy scowls, but finally sits, nostrils flaring. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do fucking anything, okay?”

“Well, if you didn’t do anything you wouldn’t be in the middle of a lawsuit right now.”

“I’m really appreciating your wit right now.”

“Fine. I’ll be serious. What’d you do?”

Pansy sighs, burying her head in her hands, hair falling around her head like a curtain. She exhales slowly, and says quietly, “A couple weeks ago, some drunk guy started to follow me home.” Hermione’s stomach turns, expecting the worse, but then Pansy raises her head, and all she sees is annoyance instead of devastation or trauma, so Hermione forces herself to relax.

“It escalated, and it got the point where he grabbed me and forced me up against a wall… so I… uh…”

“You hexed him?” Hermione assumes, scanning the documents, flipping through the details of the suit.

“Merlin, no. There were Muggles watching. I just gave him a good beating, that’s all.”

Hermione’s lips twitch up despite her promise to remain serious.

“It says here you… broke his nose, bruised his ribs, and ‘gave him a potentially quality of life threatening groin injury’. That’s an interesting way to put it,” Hermione muses, flipping the page. “He’s suing you to cover his hospital bills-- which seem a little inflated, if you ask me-- and, Christ, the cost of his therapy, plus ‘psychological damages’, which make up about 90% of the total costs.”

“I didn’t know those details,” Pansy mutters.

Hermione holds in a sigh. Of course she didn’t. “Really?”

“No. I just left him there after he fell. What, were you expecting me to call the police and turn myself in?”

Hermione’s nostrils flare. “No. But that’s not what I meant. How did he know who you were, and how to contact you?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “I’m very recognizable to the theatre world, Granger.”

“Ah, yes, of course. How could I forget,” Hermione forces out. All she has to do is be civil. She can do that. She’s an adult. A Minister of Magic-hopeful. A successful lawyer. A Dark Lord slayer. She could be civil for one second, even to her bitch of an ex.

“It’s just my bloody luck that the one man I attack happens to be into musicals. But, uh, really. How is this looking for me? Because I… can’t afford all that.”

Hermione snorts, taking guilty pleasure in the admission. “I don’t know anyone who could afford to pay 500k out of pocket.”

“Granger.”

Hermione flips the folder closed and meets Pansy’s eyes, immaturely trying to make her gaze as intense and intimidating as possible. “This is going to get tossed out. The money he’s asking from you, first of all, is unrealistic, any judge will see that. Plus, you said there were Muggles there?” Pansy nods. “You have witnesses, proving that your life was in danger, if they’re willing to testify--”

“I have their contact information,” Pansy cuts in, seeming slightly excited about it. “Irish tourists. Very nice girls.”

“Okay. And where did the altercation occur?”

“Bus stop over by Harry and Draco’s.”

Hermione bites down on the familiar sting of being left out, of not knowing what’s going on.

“Okay, then there’ll be cameras. Listen, I’ll review the footage and contact the witnesses, but this looks like it’ll be thrown out.”

“And… if it’s not?”

“Then I’ll be able to majorly reduce what you’ll have to pay.”

“I know this isn’t the type of work you usually do. If you could just recommend another lawyer--” 

“This is an easy case. I’ll be able to get this worked out quickly. Won’t even interfere with my day-to-day.”

It’s an utter lie, if this guy is as petulant as Hermione suspects he is, this case could be dragged out for months, but she knows the types of lawyers that handle these cases usually. They’ll make a mess of it, and charge Pansy thousands of dollars a week while doing it. It’s safe in her hands.

If she was younger, if their breakup was fresher, she’d toss Pansy to the wolves, take pleasure in her suffering, but she can’t do that now. A petty, angry pervert can’t be the end of Pansy’s life. And Hermione can’t aid him.

“And what about payment?”

Hermione waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

“What--? Granger. I  _ insist _ on paying you.”

Hermione grits her teeth. A conversation flashes in her mind from however many years ago, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, how does time pass so quickly? Young Pansy and Hermione flash in her mind, new homeowners, going over rent and bills and food costs.  _ I can’t contribute much right now. Then again, even if I was performing on fucking Broadway I wouldn’t be able to contribute much. It’s like, you’re living in a huge city for access, so rent’s a nightmare, and you never know when your next job is going to be, or how long it’s going to run, or if you’re putting in months and months of rehearsal and time and money just for it to be shuttered in a week.  _ Hermione had rolled her eyes.  _ So no rent?  _ Pansy grinned.  _ It’s all you, baby. _

“Pansy. It’s fine. Just... give me the contact info for your witnesses and go.”

Pansy blinks, shock written all over her features, then her face is schooled into cold, passive neutrality. “Thank you, Granger.”

They make eye contact, and although everything about the exchange had been civil, every part of Hermione’s body is tense as Pansy’s brown eyes shine back at her, narrowed and angry and hurt. She’s sure hers look the same.

“You should go. I’ll contact you when I have more information.”

Pansy rises, scribbling out a number on the top of the folder and leaving soon after. The door closes, and Hermione can finally exhale.

This might be the worst idea she’s ever had.


	2. i think i like you (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was early October of eighth year when Draco and Harry got together. It was loud and dramatic, like everything else they did with each other.  
>  It was late October when Blaise started sneaking out to the Quidditch Pitch at odd hours of the day, and it was November when someone spotted him kissing Ginny Weasley in the hall.  
>  And it was right before Thanksgiving when Ron and Lavender, hand in hand, walked into the eighth year common room and announced they were going to give it another try.  
>  And in between, it was Dean and Seamus, and Padma and Theo, and Millicent and Anthony, and all the rest, pairing up quickly and sweetly, until it felt like Pansy and Hermione were the only ones left in the entire school who weren’t in a relationship.  
>  From there, it was all so inevitable.
> 
> Ten years after Hogwarts and ten years after the most devastating breakup either of them have ever been through, Pansy and Hermione start to make their way back together again.

Pansy can’t stop staring at the paper. It’s just a piece of paper. But she can’t stop staring at it.  _ Lawsuit. 500,000 dollars. Hire a lawyer. _ Those are the words that jump out at her-- that dominate her mind every single moment of every single day. She had to cancel one of her classes. Her pay’s been docked, but all she can do is stare at the paper.

She doesn’t even know why she went to Hermione. A strange woman accosted her in the hall outside her flat, asking her over and over  _ Are you Pansy Parkinson?  _ Over and over and over and fucking over. Finally, when Pansy said yes, the dreaded words,  _ You’ve just been served.  _ They’re still ringing through her head. She skimmed the document, then ran to Hermione.

She’s still going over it, what she did, how she looked, why it all happened. If she could redo the entire thing, well, she would still punch the guy, he was being a dick, but maybe she would surreptitiously Obliviate him after. And after, she would probably wait a bit until storming into Hermione’s office, not too long, just long enough to cool down slightly.

(Hermione did look exhausted throughout their entire exchange. Pansy yelling and screaming and pacing probably didn’t help.)

But whatever. She can’t redo it. She can’t un-ask Hermione. She’s in this now.

And Hermione said she could work it out quickly. Easily. Which probably was a lie, knowing Hermione, but Pansy really hopes it isn’t.

Worst case scenario-- she’s still working this out when she has to go back to New York. And then she loses, and has to pay 500k to this dick, while she’s in New York. Merlin. 

She shakes her head, like she can get the thought out of her mind if she tries hard enough.

Okay. Best case scenario-- it’s worked out by the time she has to go back to New York, she doesn’t have to pay a dime. 

“Let’s hope for that,” Pansy mutters to herself.

“Did you say something, love?” 

Pansy straightens, gaze snapping up to the waitress, standing at the other end of the table, holding the coffee she ordered. “No, sorry.”

“Okay. Here’s your coffee. Can I get you another scone?”

Pansy smiles tightly at her. “No. Thank you.”

The waitress nods and walks off, leaving Pansy alone.

Pansy usually doesn’t like being alone.

But she’s gotten used to it, at this point. New York City is big, and bright, and wonderful, and so full of people it’s nearly impossible to feel lonely, but work keeps her busy.

Being back in London is jarring, in more ways than one. She’s at Harry and Draco’s almost every night, talking and eating and laughing with them. When she’s not there, she’s at Ginny’s and Blaise’s flat, gossiping and arguing and laughing, and it’s all so weird, so different from New York.

London is like the past, safe and sure, but stifling. Pansy’s only been back barely three weeks and she already feels jittery, like she needs to keep moving or  _ something _ will catch up with her.

New York is like the future, unsure and confusing but exciting. And she’s only been gone for three weeks but she misses it so fiercely she doesn’t know how she’ll last four more months without it.

She loves London so dearly but the thought of staying in it…

“Pansy.”

Pansy forces herself to slowly set down her coffee, uncross her legs, and look up, barely managing not to scowl when she sees Hermione standing in front of her.

“You’re here.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare, but her voice is passive as she says, “Yes, obviously.”

“Are you going to sit?” Pansy asks, arching one eyebrow.

Hermione, surprisingly, doesn’t shoot a comment back, just sits, elegantly taking off her coat and draping it over the back of the chair.

“Okay, before we start, I’d like to make a few things clear,” Hermione says primly, using a manicured hand to flip her braids over her shoulder. 

Pansy’s eyes follow the movement.

Hermione never used to get her nails done.  _ It’s a waste of time. I have too much work to do to be fumbling around with acrylics!  _ Same with her hair. She’d do something with it, never anything dramatic, but Pansy has seen her three times in three weeks and each time her hair has been glamorously different. Today, her braids aren’t in half buns, they’re thicker, and they’re spilling down her back, the occasional gold bead catching the cafe’s weak light. 

“Go ahead,” Pansy responds, a bit belatedly.  _ Shit. _

Hermione’s eyebrows flick up, and it seems like she has to wrestle down a smug grin or something, but a moment later, her face is perfectly neutral. “One-- I’m a professional. Whatever…  _ issues _ there are between us, I am willing to forget about it for professionalism’s sake.” Pansy barely manages not to roll her eyes. “Two-- I will deal with this as quickly as possible, and I am fully confident in my abilities to win this for you. However, you have to  _ let _ me win this for you. You have to do what I tell you, when I tell you. No yelling about perverts or righteousness… okay?”

“You act like I’m some kind of uncontrollable animal,” Pansy mutters, sipping her coffee, trying to disguise the flare of anger that is burning in her stomach.

“You aren’t an animal, but can we acknowledge that you have issues with following rules? Especially  _ my _ rules?”

“Merlin, yes, fine. I will defer to you.”

“Thank you, Pansy. That will make my job much easier.”

The words are wrong, too polite, too… whatever, they’re just  _ wrong _ . For them, their… relationship. It was never polite. Never professional. Even at the end. Pansy stifles a snort.  _ Especially _ at the end. And they both know it.

Tension descends upon the two of them, and it’s palpable and makes Pansy’s skin crawl with the urge to throw down her mug and leave this place forever.

“Is that all you wanted to discuss?” Pansy manages, putting down her coffee cup with a little more force than necessary.

Hermione sighs and leans back in her chair, wincing slightly as the legs squeak against the wood floor. She always hated that.

“No, actually. I need  _ you _ specifically to contact your witnesses. I tried, but they didn't…  _ trust _ me, exactly.”

Pansy blinks. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I guess… I mean, I talked in legalese, and even though I specifically stated that I was your lawyer, they didn’t believe me. Also, when I said I was representing Pansy Parkinson, they didn’t know who that was… it was a whole thing. A lot of confusion. They’re in Spain right now, as a part of a world tour for their gap year, and they kept trying to speak to me in Spanish…” She trails off, face pinched. “Anyway, I need you to contact them and explain the situation.”

Pansy snorts. “Of course.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hermione snaps, sitting up in her chair, just as the waitress walks up.

“Can I get you a tea, love?” The waitress asks, tapping her pencil against her wrist.

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying for much longer.”

The words are tense, strained, angry. Pansy briefly worries that the waitress will ask about it, which will certainly only exacerbate the situation, but the waitress smiles and walks away without another word, pencil still tapping against her wrist to some internal beat.

Hermione’s gaze flicks back to Pansy, and Pansy can’t resist smirking as she explains, “You’ve got to understand, dear Hermione, that those girls are mere mortals, and that they are simply no match for your outlandish genius.”

“So I’ve got to dumb it down for your star witnesses? That’s reassuring,” Hermione mutters, eyes darting around the rest of the coffee shop.

Pansy hates that the insult didn’t faze Hermione at all, but also doesn’t expect anything different. Hermione’s imperviousness to her snaps and insults and jeers is part of the reason Pansy fell in love with her.

“I’ll call them,” Pansy says quickly, downing the rest of her coffee. 

She needs to leave. Now.

“Yes, of course. I’ll contact you if I need anything else.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything different.”

She leaves without another word, shoving her way out the door and into the frigid air. Merlin, this had been her worst idea yet.

This was even stupider than the time she had decided that walking through Times Square on New Years Eve would be  _ fun _ .

(It wasn’t, it was loud and crowded and she ruined her dress.)

How she would stand to even be in the same room as Hermione... Pansy didn’t know.

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

“There she is! My nearest, dearest friend!”

Hermione grinned and turned, smile stretching even wider as she saw Pansy jogging down the hall, scarf fluttering out behind her. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Pansy yelled again, not caring about the glares people were shooting her way as she shoved her way through the crowd and shouted at the top of her lungs.

A laugh bubbled out of Hermione, and she leaned back against the wall, books folded against her chest. Pansy finally broke through the mess of students and approached rapidly, heels clicking on the floor.

“Granger, you were out of the common room by the time I got up! I was going to regale you.” 

Pansy didn’t stop until she was pressed against Hermione, hands on her shoulders and hair drifting against Hermione’s chin.

“I don’t have the time to wait for you to get ready!” Hermione replied, biting her lip slightly as Pansy leaned in, brown eyes wide, fake pouting. “You take  _ hours _ .”

“You wound me, Granger.”

Hermione laughed despite herself. “Anyway, what were you going to regale me with?”

“Well, for your information, I had quite an interesting dream last night,” Pansy whispered conspiratorially, leaning down and brushing her lips against Hermione’s ear.

She did that a lot, like, _ a lot, _ and each time it sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. Which made sense, Hermione rationalized, just because Pansy was really the only one who touched her nowadays at all, and that was bound to have some effect on her body. It would be the same if Voldemort touched her. Well, maybe not. But it was certainly nothing to worry about.

“Was it a sex dream about that actress you like? Because I’ve heard that one before.”

“Please, Granger. I’m more original than that.”

“Are you? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a few repeats.”

“No you haven’t! I take care to keep my stories interesting and new!”

Hermione grinned and pushed past Pansy, into the steady stream of students heading towards breakfast. Pansy joined her, looping an arm through hers.

“I suppose if you would like to hear about the sex dream again, I could tell you,” Pansy started, the loud statement attracting the gaze of several students around them. “But I have to tell you about last night’s dream first.”

Hermione nodded and resigned herself to a long story.

Being  _ friends _ with Pansy Parkinson was perplexing. Before, they were nothing, not even enemies or anything like that… just nothing. Now, well, Hermione knew that every morning, without fail, Pansy refused to start her day unless someone would listen to last night's dream, and if she didn’t have a dream, she’d simply make up a story. And she thought that tea was preferable to coffee ( _ I fucking hate that bile, don’t even show it to me _ ). Pansy and Draco fought almost every single day, but even if they had threatened to kill each other the night before, if she and Hermione got to breakfast first, she would save Draco a blueberry muffin. And Pansy was actually incredibly smart, but her only aspiration in life was to be famous, so she didn’t do assignments and didn’t take notes.

That particular detail irked Hermione slightly, but as Ron liked to remind her, she can’t control others.

“...anyway, then he swallowed Dumbledore.”

Hermione nodded, 100% certain she had heard this one before. “Naturally.”

Pansy sighed dramatically, leaning into Hermione. “You weren’t listening.”

“How dare you! Of course I was!” Hermione exclaimed, feigning offense.

“Please, I know that look when you’re far away. I know you better than you think!” Pansy replied, her signature smirk widening into something more genuine.

Hermione shrugged, bumping Pansy’s shoulder with her own. “I’m sorry, but I’ve heard that one before.”

“No you haven’t! You didn’t even listen!” Pansy insisted, turning so she was blocking Hermione from going any farther. Students surged around them, glaring and muttering.

“You should try being more considerate,” A sixth year snapped at them as he walked by.

“Oh no! Are we being inconsiderate? This is the Savior of the fucking Wizarding World you’re muttering about, you fuck!” Pansy spit back at him, eyes glittering when Hermione laughed.

“Anyway, if you’re so confident I’m repeating my stories, what was I just talking about then?”

Hermione scoffed, leaning closer to Pansy. “Snape and Dumbledore are playing strip poker, and then a basilisk comes out of nowhere and eats them. But not after a half naked Wizarding battle, of course.”

Pansy groaned, tipping her head back. “I guess you have heard that one before.”

Hermione bit back a grin, stomach fluttering at the way Pansy was looking at her, with a mix of fascination and exasperation and maybe a hint of something more.

Hermione slammed that thought down and pushed past Pansy. There was nothing ‘more’, she was just lonely.

Pansy strutted after her, and after a moment they were in the Great Hall, sliding into their usual seats at the eighth year table. Pansy, with Draco and Harry to her right and Blaise to her left, and Hermione across from her, with Ron and Lavender snogging at her left. Usually, the seat on her other side was empty, unless Pansy and Draco were still fighting, then Pansy slid in next to her.

Today happened to be a day where Pansy and Draco were fighting, and so when Hermione sat down Pansy joined her with a huff. “Motherfuckers,” she muttered, resting her head in her palm.

“Who?” Hermione asked absentmindedly, flipping open a book her parents sent her last week about a little boy and his father and a road. 

“Merlin, Granger, look around.”

It took Hermione a bit to actually look around, mostly because she wanted to finish the paragraph she was on, but when she finally lifted her head a choked laugh burst out of her.

Draco and Harry were murmuring to each other, playing with their ties and grinning like idiots across from her while to her left, Lavender and Ron were snogging like maniacs (at breakfast!) and a little ways down the table Ginny and Blaise were practically molded together as they giggled and laughed to each other. It was all so unbearably nauseating, and obviously none of them had  _ any _ care for the people around them, who were trying to  _ eat _ .

“Christ,” Hermione remarked, grimacing, ducking back down to her book.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?” Pansy continued, reaching past Hermione for a slice of bacon. “Hey! Lovebirds!”

Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye as Draco’s gaze snapped to Pansy, sneering. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“To eat without having to stare at your obvious erections,” Pansy shot back, a cruel little smile curving up her lips. “That goes for all of you, by the way,” she called down the table, and while Blaise simply flipped her off and continued biting his lip at Ginny, she did succeed in knocking Ron and Lavender out of their bubble.

They parted, Lavender grinning and Ron blushing madly. He busied himself with buttering his own toast, which Pansy had a field day muttering about.

“Don’t be cruel, Pansy, they can’t control it!” Lavender teased, giggling as she rested her head on Ron’s shoulder.

“Are you high again?” Pansy replied, voice sharp.

“How’d you know?” Lavender asked, glassy eyes sliding to Pansy.

“Fucking stoner,” Pansy whispered under her breath, eliciting a laugh from Hermione.

“She only does it when she’s stressed,” Hermione replied quietly, so Lavender couldn’t hear her. “It’s either midterms or…” She trailed off, giving Pansy a meaningful look.

“Weasley can’t get it up?”

Hermione bit back a grin. “In crude terms, yes.”

Pansy snorted and started piling her plate with food, letting Hermione go back to her book.

This author had such an odd writing style, but it had to be admired--

“Hey, Granger.”

Hermione barely managed not to sigh as she looked away from her book. “Yes, Pansy-- what are you doing?”

Pansy was turned towards her, a gleeful, mischievous grin on her face, plate piled high with strawberries. 

“Well, we shouldn’t be the only ones not engaging in nauseating business, should we?”

Hermione cast another glance around their end of the table, frowning as she saw everyone had returned back to their little couple-world, Pansy’s interruption forgotten. “You’re not serious.”

“ _ Deadly _ .”

“Christ, you’re ridiculous. What are you going to do? Feed me? That’s  _ ridiculous-- _ ”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve already said that. Now come on!” Pansy insisted, half-whining.

Hermione rolled her eyes and nodded, acquiescing. What was stopping her? It wasn’t like Pansy was being serious. Everything with Pansy was either comedic or cruel, usually a sick intertwining of both, and this… well. It was ridiculous.

“Which shall you feed me first? The fuzzy one, or the rotten one?” Hermione asked, smiling slightly.

“It’s not strawberry season, Granger! Merlin, you’re picky. I’m trying to do the best I can.” Pansy picked through the ones on her plate till she found a one that was suitable. “It’s so hard to be romantic at this time of the year,” she added, flipping her hair out of her face. “Okay, here we go.”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her as Pansy shoved a strawberry at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. Hermione leaned forward and bit down delicately, cringing slightly as she tasted how bland it was. 

“Christ, we’re wizards, can’t we make these good?”

Pansy, for one beautiful, unfiltered second, grinned in a way that wasn’t overly dramatic, or rude, or petulant, but truly happy, and Hermione’s entire stomach lurched as she saw it.

Then it was gone. “And you say I’m the dramatic one,” she muttered, pushing the plate of strawberries away and rifling for some extra bacon. “Fuck off, Draco! Granger and I are trying to be gross!” She yelled when Draco tried to fight her for it.

Draco scowled but backed off, tucking himself into Harry’s arms, and Pansy grabbed a bacon strip and dangled it in front of Hermione’s face. “Okay, now!”

Rolling her eyes, she bit down delicately, snorting as she tried to tear an undercooked section off with just her teeth. Pansy, realizing her struggle, yanked back herself, and the strip split, half smacking Pansy’s hand and the other half hitting Hermione’s face, splattering grease all over her chin.

A pure, free laugh tore out of her, as much as she wanted to be petty and tease Pansy she couldn’t stop from laughing as she spit out the bacon and grabbed a napkin to wipe at her face. 

“Merlin, Granger! Messy now, are we?” Pansy said, that same delighted grin on her face. “Here-- fuck, Hermione! Why did you spit it out!? That’s so fucking gross!”

“You fed me undercooked pork! I could get sick!” Hermione retorted, stomach fluttering, either because Pansy was laughing and grinning and she actually did look really pretty when she did that, or because she actually used her first name. 

“I’m trying to be romantic!” Pansy fired back without hesitating as she reached across the table, grabbed a clean napkin, and dunked it in Draco’s water, much to his chagrin. Ignoring his insults, she leaned over and started dabbing at Hermione’s chin, clucking her tongue. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

Hermione tilted her head up, rolling her eyes. “I can’t stand you sometimes. That was--”

Pansy gasped, widening her eyes comically. “Let me guess! Was it ridiculous?”

“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed, another laugh bubbling out of her. She let her eyes flicker closed as Pansy dotted the rest of her face, cleaning up any greasy remains.

Finally, when Pansy pulled away, Hermione’s eyes flicked open, and her heart thudded strangely when she saw the way Pansy was looking at her.

With a mix of fascination, and exasperation, and... maybe something more.

Hermione let herself fall into it, surround herself in it, for just a moment, just one blessed, blissful moment, before speaking. After all, it wasn’t smart to indulge yourself in wild fantasies. And her wildest fantasy  _ had _ to be Pansy Parkinson being kind.

“Now it’s your turn,” Hermione murmured, smiling slightly. “Do you want moldy food, or undercooked?”

Pansy blinked, like she was being pulled out of a trance, and smirked, all traces of softness gone, replaced by sharp, merciless edges. “I think undercooked, yes? Because then,” she started, pointing a long finger at the small pile of half chewed bacon on Hermione’s plate, “I can just spit it out like a heathen, can’t I?”

Hermione grinned, leaning closer to Pansy, a sly remark on her lips, when a drawling voice cut through their conversation. “You’re already a heathen, Pansy, it’s okay.”

Indignant rage flashed across Pansy’s face for just a moment, before disappearing under a mask of biting nonchalance. “I wasn’t aware I was talking to you, Draco.”

Hermione turned away from Pansy, the moment shattered, and picked up her book again, flipping to her page as Pansy and Draco argued, trying not to let the disappointment settle too deep in her stomach. 

She ignored the way Harry scrutinized her.

*

Hermione is true to her word. She’s going to be civil. No matter what. But it’s just so fucking difficult when Pansy’s sitting across from her, with that stupid little smirk on her face, acting like she knows everything, can do anything, just because she got a couple witnesses on the phone.

“Never got your name, so when this wee little thing called us up talking about flowers, we didn’t know what to do! But thank fuck you’re taking this guy on, right girls?”

The other two chime in with similar sentiments, and Hermione has to cough to avoid laughing at the way Ms. Orla O’Donnell draws out her words, Irish accent twisting them so the end of her sentence sounds more like ‘roight garls?’ than anything else.

“You don’t need to come back to London,” Hermione cuts in, scribbling a few notes about having them speak slowly when they give their official testimony. “Just record a few things for me.”

“Like how this motherfucker got right up in her face, but she smacked the bloody shit out of him?” Ms. Siobhan Murphy says eagerly, eliciting a few giggles from her friends.

Pansy’s cold, passive mask flickers.

“It was truly a sight! One second he was up, yelling about and all that, and the next he was on the pavement, crying his wee eyes out!” Orla adds, voice cracking over the phone.

“Are ya going to send us actual, like, questions and answers and all that?” Ms. Erin Byrne asks in a small voice, cutting through her friends’ laughter.

“Yes, I am. Expect some mail very soon. I’ll be in touch in a couple days, ladies. Thank you,” Hermione says, wondering if they can hear how tired she sounds.

“Pansy! Stay strong, stay powerful, you bloody bitch!” Siobhan screams through the phone, and Hermione’s distantly wondering how long the goodbyes will go on for, especially with this lot, when Pansy’s hand darts out from where it’s folded on her lap and hangs up the phone, scowling. 

“Fun girls,” Hermione comments, eyes flicking to Pansy and then back down to her notes.

“They’re very young,” Pansy says, like it’s a full explanation. Which, Hermione guesses, it is.

“Were we ever like that?” Hermione asks, and it’s not really a question she expects to be answered, she’s found over the years that in order to be with Pansy... it’s all about having little to no expectations, which is why it surprises her so much when Pansy actually responds.

“Yes. Not for a while, though.” 

Her voice is cold and detached, and Hermione can almost imagine for a second that she’s not talking to her ex who she lived with for seven years, who she loved, who she dreamed of marrying, and just any old client, hopeless and far removed from their happiest years.

It makes her heart clench.

“Anyway,” Hermione interjects quickly, not looking at Pansy too closely. “I need to talk to you about the camera footage.”

“Ah, yes, our damning evidence of my innocence.”

Hermione grimaces. “Not quite.”

Pansy straightens, staring daggers at Hermione. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

Hermione sighs and turns her laptop around. She hits the spacebar, and the grainy, black and white footage of Pansy and her attacker starts playing.

Hermione watches Pansy’s face closely, looking for any flickers of pain, or sadness, or anything other than contempt, really. But as Pansy’s eyes take in the footage, any emotion she’s feeling is carefully covered with a sneer.

“So, here is him pinning you, then you delivering the first hit, second hit, third hit, etc., etc., but the issue is…” Hermione trails off, hitting the spacebar again, pausing it, and Pansy’s eyes widen when she realizes.

“He was on the ground,” she mutters, paling. “And I kicked him again.” She slumps back into her chair, righteous demeanor crumbling. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Hermione nods, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. “I have a feeling a judge isn’t going to look too kindly on… that. Everything else, I can easily argue is warranted, but this… not so much. It’ll take some more evidence to overwhelm it, gloss over it.”

“And how do we do that?” Pansy snaps, nostrils flaring. 

“Character witnesses. Every single person you know-- who likes you, that is-- I need a statement from them talking about how you don’t attack unless provoked, about how other than that you’re a kind, smart, caring person.”

“But that’s not true.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “You have to  _ make _ it true.”

Pansy nods, once, twice. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Yes, well, you have no other choice,” Hermione mutters, closing her lap and levitating it back to its place on the file cabinet behind her.

“I thought you said you could win this,” Pansy says sharply, leaning forward in her seat, and Hermione easily sees through the haughty, arrogant comment, because all she hears in Pansy’s voice is pure, unfiltered panic.

“I can,” Hemione replies simply. “Were you not aware that a fight against a rich, petulant white man would require some work on your part?”

“Shut up,” Pansy snarls, standing.

And it’s everything Hermione can do to clench her jaw and stay civil, because Pansy wants her to snarl back, to be unprofessional, and if there is one thing Hermione does well, it’s being professional.

But Pansy has always had that fucking effect on her, and now Hermione’s standing too, and she can’t stop herself even if she wanted to.

*

Blaise had  _ told _ her, he had sat her down and lectured her, for a bloody  _ hour _ , about how working with Hermione was a bad idea.

_ Pansy,  _ he had started,  _ I just think you should ask for another lawyer. _

_ I can’t afford another lawyer, Blaise. She’s my only choice-- _

_ Do you even remember what happened ten years ago? _

_ Yeah, I fucking do, and it was ten bloody years ago! I’ll be fine! _

Fucking Blaise. He was right. 

Pansy stares into Hermione’s eyes, depthless and inviting, and although all she can feel is anger and panic and indignation and frustration and all those disgusting emotions that devour her on the inside, she knows she’s overreacting.

Hermione just asked her to do something extra.

She had been a bitch about it, but still.

Pansy feels herself drowning, distantly, in the memories of fights just like this one, except not quite, except in those memories it ends with Hermione’s arms wrapped around her and her lips on hers, and this fight will just end with Pansy going broke.

Blaise had told her, with Ginny chiming in from the other room.  _ Honestly, Parkinson, good for you for burying the hatchet. Very professional of you. Very grown up. _

_ I don’t need placations from you, Weasley! _

Ginny laughed, that big, bright beautiful laugh Blaise still mooned over every day.  _ This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it? _

_  
__You two are making me feel really good about my choices._ Pansy had whined, and Ginny drifted in from the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand. She settled on the couch next to Pansy and Blaise, flipping her curtain of red hair over her shoulder. _None for me?_

Ginny had grinned.  _ Wine is for people who don’t get messily involved with their ex’s. _

And now Pansy had to admit that they were right. Merlin, she’d rather die.

“Christ, Pansy, I’m just trying to  _ help _ you,” Hermione says, face screwed up in anger.

Pansy snaps back into the present, and fighting with Hermione is like playing a part she desperately doesn’t want to but she  _ has _ to, and she hates that it feels so familiar.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Granger--”

“Um, yes, I think the fuck you do, because you went and got yourself involved in a lawsuit, Pansy. What, can you even afford another lawyer, with that fancy high rise in Manhattan?”

“My finances are none of your business, Granger,” Pansy spits out, and for just a second, she remembers five years ago, in acting workshop off Broadway, where her instructor had her knock everything off a desk in anger, over and over and over again, until she finally got it ‘right’, and although Pansy thinks it’ll be childish and immature, she raises her arm, and is just about to do it, but then Hermione fixes her with a pitying, disgusted look, and all she can think to do is  _ get out _ . 

She needs to get out.

*

“Christ, Pansy, I’m just trying to  _ help _ you--”

“I don’t need your fucking help, Granger--”

“Um, yes, I think the fuck you do, because you went and got yourself involved in a lawsuit, Pansy. What, can you even afford another lawyer, with that fancy high rise in Manhattan?”

“My finances are none of your business, Granger.” Pansy takes a step closer, and for a second it looks like she’s going to knock all of Hermione’s documents off her desk, but instead she just growls and turns away. “Fuck your charity work, and fuck you.”

Not unlike a hurricane, she blows out the door, sending files scattering in her wake. 

Hermione hears one of her interns yelp, which is sure to incense Pansy even more, and a moment later the crack of Apparition sounds, signaling Pansy’s departure.

Hermione walks around her desk, slamming the door shut, and starts cleaning up the files Pansy had sent flying to the floor.

Why did she think this would work out?

What an absolute bitch, Christ-- she should lose the case just so Pansy has to pay out of her ass in settlements.

She does the only thing she can think of.

“Ginny, I cannot  _ believe _ I actually thought I could  _ do _ this--”

“How-- how does this thing work? Hermione, hold on for one second, I’m having issues with the Muggle phone.”

“Christ, Gin, you need to learn how to use it. Your dad got it for you  _ months _ ago.”

“Hold on--  _ Blaise _ !”

There’s a lot of muffled noises, then a snapped  _ what!,  _ and Hermione is hit by an urge to hang up and throw her phone against the wall.

“I’m on a firecall with Pansy-- Merlin you’re on a call with Hermione? That’s bloody rich--”

“I can hear you, Blaise,” Hermione snaps, clenching her jaw as hard as her joints allowed.

“Bloody fuck-- I’m really very sorry, Hermione. So you two had a fight?” 

“Give the bloody phone back to Ginny, Blaise!” She almost screeches, just barely keeping her voice down, vocal chords straining with the effort.

More muffled noise, then Ginny’s crackling through. “What’s up?”

“Pansy’s an absolute bitch, that’s what.”

“Funny, she’s saying that about you right now too.”

“You’re not being helpful!”

Ginny’s laugh, bright and song-like, fills the phone. 

“Jesus bloody Christ-- just march over there and tell Pansy she can find herself a new fucking lawyer, and she can kindly fuck off so I  _ never _ have to see her again.”

Ginny laughs again, though it sounds more muffled, like she’s trying really hard not to. “Right on, then. Are you going to stay on for her response, or should I just message you?”

“Fuck off, Ginny Weasley.”

Hermione hangs up and throws her phone down, cringing when it lands on her wood desk, instead of her cushioned chair, like she had planned.

Okay. Options.

She needed to scream, and Ginny was too caught up in the comedy of it all to listen properly. Pansy might go to Harry and Draco, so they were out, which left Lavender and Ron. 

They weren’t bad. They’d make her tea and listen to her rant, but ugh, they might try and make her feel better about the entire thing, and she had already made up her mind that she had been too defensive and would apologize to Pansy in a couple days.

(Even though the thought of apologizing makes her want to vomit.)

She starts gathering her things, picking up her phone again and dialing.

“Hello?” Came Lavender’s high voice.

“Christ, Lav, I don’t know  _ why _ I ever thought I’d ever be able to do this--”

“Is it Parkinson?”

“Yes, ugh, she’s just so fucking frustrating. I can’t take it sometimes.”

“Sometimes? Isn’t that why you broke up? Because she’s a bloody prick at best?”

Hermione grits her teeth.

Memories of Pansy reading Hermione her favorite book while she tries to fall asleep and hazy flashes of late at night, when they’d fall asleep in each other’s arms while watching TV roll through Hermione’s mind, reminding her that no, Pansy isn’t a prick at best, she’s actually an okay person who’s just been through a lot--

“Hermione?”

Hermione clears her throat and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Can I come over?”

*

“I’m going to go rob a fucking bank or something-- just so that i have enough money to  _ never _ see her again-- I’ll rob and a bank and get another goddamn lawyer--”

“ _ Blaise _ !” 

Pany huffs, glaring at Blaise. “Do you need to deal with that?” 

“Yeah, probably. Hold on--  _ what _ !”

Through the fire, Pansy can barely see Ginny walk into the room, holding one of those Muggle phones Hermione is so fond of. 

“Blaise, Hermione’s on--”

“I’m on a firecall with Pansy-- Merlin you’re on a call with Hermione? That’s bloody rich--”

He’s cut off by something, and he turns fully away from the fire, and it’s all Pansy can do to not Apparate over there and knock his head off.

“Bloody fuck-- I’m really very sorry, Hermione. So you two had a fight?” 

“Blaise Zabini!” Pansy yells, causing him to whirl around, eyes wide. 

“Merlin, Pansy, I don’t think the entire bloody neighborhood heard you, why don’t you try again,” he mutters, settling back in front of the fire. “So you two had a fight? I thought it was going okay--”

“Yes, well now it isn’t,” Pansy snaps, realizing that this perhaps wasn’t her best idea.

“Um, Pansy?” The fire flickers again, and Ginny’s face becomes visible, squinting into the flame at her.

“ _ What _ , Ginny?” Pansy replies,  _ so _ close to cursing them both out and Apparating back to New York.

“Well, I was just on the phone with Hermione, and she says to tell you that you can find yourself, ahem, a new fucking lawyer, and you can  _ kindly _ , she did say kindly, isn’t that nice? Uh, kindly fuck off so you never see each other again.” 

“If I could, I bloody would!”

“I think this partnership is going to yield great results,” Ginny replies, and Pansy can see her grin even with the dying flame.

“I’m glad you think this is funny!”

Blaise snorts. “It’s just so nice to be able to say ‘i told you so’. Because we did tell you so, Pansy.”

“I hate both of you.”

“And we love you!” Ginny calls.

Pansy scowls and waves her hand, and the fire flickers out, crackling in her fireplace.

Fucking bastards.

Now what?

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

“Pansy!” Hermione called, knocking on the door to Pansy’s dorm. She shared with Millicent Bulstrode usually, but when Hermione asked her this morning, Millicent said she had moved out a little bit ago because ‘Parkinson’s fucking impossible’, which made Hermione want to roll her eyes.

(She didn’t.)

“Let’s go! I can’t be late for Arithmancy!”

She waited, straining her ears for a response, but all she heard was a muffled groan.

Swearing to herself, she swung her wand over the doorknob, unlocking it easily, and strode into Pansy’s room. “What are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

Pansy was fully dressed, hair and makeup done, but she was lying face up on her made bed, staring daggers into the ceiling. “I fucking hate my uterus.”

Hermione blinked, mouth opening but nothing coming out. Preparing for a rant, she closed the door behind her, the lock falling into place with a soft  _ snick _ .

“Um, well, while I certainly agree with the sentiment, we’re going to be late for classes--”

“Fuck classes! My entire body hurts, Hermione! And there’s blood coming out of my vagina, and I’m breaking out, and it’s all because I’m  _ not _ pregnant! My uterus could have just sent a note or something, like, hullo! You’re not pregnant! But no! The fanfare of the entire operation!”

Hermione bit back a grin, certain that Pansy wouldn’t appreciate it. “Can I get you something? A heating pad? Medication? Chocolate?”

Pansy eyes slid to her, softening slightly. “It’s really nice having another girl around, you know,” she said quietly, eyes flicking away again. “When I complain about these things to Draco and Blaise they just tell me I’m overreacting.”

Hermione nodded, putting her books on a nearby table and standing awkwardly by the door. 

What would  _ she _ want at this moment?

“Ron and Harry are a fan of ‘you’re just being dramatic’,” she said, clearing her throat and approaching Pansy slowly.

“That’s a good one,” Pansy muttered, smirking, eyes glued to the ceiling as Hermione balanced on the edge of her bed, uncertain of whether a comforting touch would be too much. After a moment of unbearable silence, she impulsively reached out and threaded her fingers through Pansy’s, inhaling sharply as she did so.

Pansy’s hand was warm and soft, rings pressing against the inside of Hermione’s finger, and it was just so…  _ Pansy _ that Hermione couldn’t help but smile. 

“My goodness, Granger, look how soft you’re being,” Pansy teased, rolling on her side so she was facing Hermione, an unreadable expression on her face. “Don’t you have to get to class? I’ll be okay, you can leave.”

Hermione scoffed and collapsed fully on the bed, hand still in Pansy’s. “Fuck classes.”

Pansy laughed, like actually  _ laughed _ , and rolled over so she was straddling Hermione. “I can’t believe it! Have I officially corrupted Hermione Granger?”

A burst of laughter escaped Hermione’s mouth, and she surged up, almost hitting her forehead against Pansy’s. “You have!”

They locked eyes, and Pansy’s face transformed into that soft, longing thing that Hermione barely ever saw, and it terrified her, yeah, but it also intrigued her to no end.

Every single point of contact between them was on fire, was electrified, and Hermione’s heart was beating so fast.

“You wanna go to the lake?” Pansy murmured, smiling slightly.

Hermione’s lips twitched up. “In December? It’ll be freezing.”

“We can keep each other warm,” Pansy said, wriggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Christ,” Hermione muttered, bucking Pansy off of her. Pansy fell and rolled across her bed, yelping dramatically, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah,” she finally said. “Let’s go to the lake.”

*

Pansy hates herself. And while it’s not a new feeling, it’s certainly an exhausting one. 

It’s been a week since she fought with Hermione, and every morning she hates herself more and more because, honestly, she doesn’t have the time to sulk. She’s already been back in London almost a month now, this lawsuit’s been hanging over her head for two weeks, and she does  _ not _ have the time to be a bitch about this.

As much as it pains her to say, she must apologize to Hermione.

She’s just working up the courage to swing by her office when she sees a familiar face at the coffee shop down the street from her apartment.

Great. Fucking great. Whatever sick, twisted god there is heard her suffering and decided to do something about it.

Pansy slips into the small establishment, the only person acknowledging her arrival is the barista behind the counter, who just nods and goes back to the coffee she’s making.

Pansy gets in line, two people behind Hermione fucking Granger, who’s now ordering.

“Black coffee, no room,” Hermione says simply, and Pansy braces herself for when Hermione turns and sees Pansy. She considers for a moment fleeing, but shuts it down before she can think about it for too long.

She knows the moment Hermione recognizes her, even though Pansy’s looking resolutely in the other direction. Hermione freezes, gaze fixed on Pansy, only shuffling to the side when the person behind her in line snaps at her to move.

Pansy’s stomach lurches, and her stupid, cowardly self can only  _ look away  _ as she slowly moves through the queue, orders her coffee, and moves to the side. And it’s absolutely awful, because now they’re standing side by side, both pretending like they don’t notice each other. 

Their coffees come up at the same time, and as Hermione grabs her coffee and turns, Pansy realizes that she is missing her window, and she summons a shred of courage and reaches out, and oh jesus fucking christ, her hand is wrapped around Hermione’s arm and Hermione’s looking at her in complete shock and she’s holding up other patrons, but she just… she needs to get it over with.

“Can we talk?”

Hermione blinks, lips pursed, and finally, after what seems like an eternity, nods mutely, looking slightly horrified at herself, and Pansy makes sure to grab her coffee and bundle her coat a little tighter around herself as they make their way outside.

“Park bench?” Hermione suggests quietly, and Pansy’s heart wrenches.

“Sure.”

As they walk down the street, side by side, towards a park bench,  _ their _ park bench, this street they’ve walked a hundred times, always side by side, except this time there’s no easily flowing conversation and stolen kisses, it’s just strain and tension and Pansy hates Hermione just because she suggested  _ their _ park bench and forced her to relive these steps. 

Apparently, Hermione sees Pansy’s humongous discomfort (she’s always been too smart for her own good), and blurts out, “Since when do you drink coffee?” 

The urge Pansy has to just tear Hermione down for the question is nearly unparalleled, but years of networking and sucking up to casting agents overwhelms her, and she’s answering before she can stop herself. “I don’t know, honestly. In New York… well, the coffee there is actually tolerable, mostly because, as I’ve been told, ‘only snooty Americans drink tea’, so the demand is higher. One day it was sickening… and the next...”

Pansy trails off, not wanting to talk anymore. 

Hermione nods, once, twice, and chokes out an, “Interesting,” before looking away.

Tense silence descends upon them.

It’s early December, and although Christmas is weeks away, decorations line the streets and there’s that winter bite in the air that makes Pansy’s cheek red as cherries. Which, unfortunately, only makes her look embarrassed, and even though that may be how she’s feeling, she certainly doesn’t want it broadcasted.

“I would like to apologize,” Pansy forces out, suddenly  _ very _ eager to get this over with as fast as possible.

“Oh?” 

“I treated you horribly last week. There’s no excuse for my behavior, except maybe the fact that I thought my lawsuit was going to be over quickly, but then you were telling me that it wasn’t and that actually I was  _ fucked _ \-- okay, I feel I’m getting off track. My behavior was irrational and inexcusable. I’m sorry.”

Pansy dares a glance at Hermione, eyes darting to her, and a mix of anger and relief wars in her when she sees Hermione’s amused smile.

“I’ll keep you on as my client, Pansy,” she murmurs, and Pansy lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

A moment passes, and the sound of the bustling street falls away as they make it into the park, beelining for the bench they commandeered every day for the better part of a decade. It’s so natural, so easy. Pansy hates it.

They sit, and it’s several minutes before Hermione speaks again. 

“Ten years is a long time,” she says quietly, thoughtful. 

“What do you mean?” Pansy asks, hoping the edge to her voice is more prominent than she thinks it is.

Hermione’s lips curve up, and Pansy can see it, even as she tries to conceal by taking a sip of her coffee. “It’s nothing… just… ten years ago, when we were dating, I mean… you apologizing was so  _ rare… _ I’d have more luck wishing for pigs to fly.”

Pansy scowls, even though she knows it’s true. 

“Yeah, well, ten years is a long time.”

Hermione snorts. 

Pansy clenches her jaw, and, desperate to make Hermione hurt, throws out, “Are you still an awful cook? Or have you picked something up in the last ten years?”

A flicker of pain flashes across Hermione’s face, so brief Pansy thinks she might’ve imagined it. “Actually, my last girlfriend was a professional chef. I learned quite a bit from her.”

Pansy wants to growl, vividly aware of the sick irony that she actually is  _ jealous _ of Hermione and her pro chef girlfriend.

“Did you ever learn to play the piano?” Pansy impulsively asks, a memory of one of their last good nights together flashing through her mind.

( _ We can learn together. Come on, it’ll keep our minds sharp.  _ A laugh.  _ We’re only 25!  _ A grin.  _ Exactly! We’re already losing brain cells! _ )

“No,” Hermione says, the regret clear in her tone. “Did you?”

Pansy smiles slightly, remembering the long nights in front of the grand piano in the orchestra pit, desperate to learn, shrieking and jumping up and down when she actually played all the way through a song with no mistakes. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Can you still not wash a dish?” Hermione mutters, smirking at Pansy’s offended yelp.

“I wash dishes just fine!”

“Doing it magically is not the proper way to do it.”

“We’ve had this argument a thousand times.”

“I know.”

“Can you still not walk in heels?”

“Actually, I wore a pair of wedges last August and did just fine.”

“Wedges, Granger! Merlin, what was the occasion?”

“Nothing important. One of the paralegals at my firm threw an ‘end of summer’ party.”

“Sounds horrendous.”

“It was.”

Pansy snorts despite herself, and even though they’re crossing into dangerous, too-familiar territory, she can’t help but want to know what Hermione has been doing all these years, away from Pansy.

“What about you, you changed your mind on coffee, have you changed your mind about asparagus?”

“No. Still tastes like Satan’s sperm.”

“Do I have to mention how weird it is that you make that comparison--”

“Oh shove it, Granger. I know.”

Hermione laughs, and it’s bright and sounds like Pansy’s favorite song.

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

They’re at the lake, and Pansy’s delirious with delight, because she and Hermione are splashing each other and hiding between trees and leaping out at the most unexpected moments, and every single time they stumble against each other their hands immediately fall together, and they both seem surprised by it, but don’t make any effort to pull away.

Pansy doesn’t feel her pain as the fog rolls in, obscuring everything, the trees, the grass, the water, the castle in the background. Because it’s just her and Hermione, and every time Pansy sprints in her heels Hermione whoops and that one time that Pansy fell down Hermione laughed so hard she totally deserved it when Pansy swung a Tripping Jinx at her.

They run down the length of the empty Quidditch Pitch, and it’s the most free Pansy’s felt maybe in her entire life, and they just scream and yell and roll around on the now-wet grass and climb the stands and play with each other’s hair.

The fog shrouds them and fools them and Pansy briefly thinks that the fog was there for  _ them _ , only them, and Hermione almost falls but Pansy catches her, an arm around her waist and the other tangled in her hair, and for one beautiful second it looks like they’re going to kiss, but then Hermione’s saying  _ shit  _ because the Hufflepuff team is coming out to practice, figures blurry in the fog, and Headmistress McGonagall is right behind them, making intense eye contact.

“Are classes over already?” Hermione asks, and it’s a stupid question because of course classes are over, which means they just spent seven hours straight fucking around, and now they’re going to pay, if McGonagall’s presence means anything.

“I’m going to Apparate,” Hermione says hurriedly, tightening her grip on Pansy, and Pansy starts to tell her that Apparating within Hogwarts is impossible, but suddenly the air is shifting around them and suddenly Pansy’s in the castle, standing in front of some wall. 

“How’d you do that?” Pansy asks, stumbling out of Hermione’s grip.

Hermione laughs, face flushed. “I don’t fucking know! Oh my god, how many wards have we just broken?”

Pansy laughs, really truly laughs, and falls against her, because they just Apparated away from Minerva McGonagall, probably setting off a few alarms and breaking a few wards, after skipping a day of classes, and it’s probably the stupidest thing they’ve ever done, and all Pansy feels is  _ happy _ .

“Where are we?”

“Room of Requirement-- hold on. We can lay low here for a bit.”

Hermione walks back and forth in front of the blank wall one, two, three times, and suddenly a door is appearing, and Hermione yanks her through it. 

They stumble into a dark room, illuminated by flickering candles, a Muggle radio crooning away in some corner, and there are chairs everywhere, plush and huge, and even a luxurious, decadent bed in the back.

There’s a small corner table, topped with a bottle of firewhiskey and assorted foods, and Pansy snorts as she takes it all in.

“Did you do all this?”

Hermione shakes her head. “The room just… does that.”

Pansy wanders over to the firewhiskey. “Well then. Cheers for us.”

She uncorks it, takes a swig, then hands it to Hermione, who looks for a moment like she’s not going to, then takes a big gulp herself, and after she swallows and sputters, she meets Pansy’s gaze and Pansy falls into those eyes, until suddenly it’s 2am, and she’s spread out on the carpeted floor and Hermione’s draped in a chair next to her.

She doesn’t know how it’s already 2am. All she knows is that it’s dark in this room, candles flickering against the walls, curtains open so they can see the stars, and that the bottle of firewhiskey is empty, half in her stomach and half in Hermione’s. Not enough to make them drunk, but just enough to forget about worries, about embarrassment, about responsibilities. Hermione has tinkered with the radio and soft, slow music fills the room, making Pansy feel like she’s surrounded by safety. That’s all she knows.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Pansy whispers, eyelids drooping.

“I don’t know,” Hermione murmurs from where she’s sprawled on a chair haphazardly. “I think… won’t you use it against me one day?”

Pansy props herself up on one elbow, leveling a glare at Hermione, the calm moment warped. “Wow, Granger. That’s nice.”

“Pansy--”

“Why? Because I’m an ex- Death Eater? Because I’m a Slytherin?” Pansy snaps, head fuzzy. 

She doesn’t blame Hermione. If she was her, she wouldn’t tell herself a damn thing either. But she has to save face.

“Christ, Pansy. Never mind,” Hermione mutters, turning away. 

Pansy grits her teeth and falls back onto the floor. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Pansy finally adds in a quieter tone, stomach roiling at the way Hermione curls into herself, wrapping arms around her knees.

“Well, I do want to, but you’re being a bitch about it,” Hermione mumbles.

Pansy suppresses a laugh, settles for a grin, a grin that Hermione can’t see in the dark.

“I sincerely promise to not be a bitch anymore,” she murmurs, loving the way her voice sounds echoing through the room with the music against it.

Hermione sighs and faces Pansy again. “And you promise to never tell anyone?”

Pansy nods, heart starting to thump a little harder, grin sliding off her face.

“Sometimes… I… well, do you ever… it’s just…”

Pansy lets Hermione work it out, well aware that poking and prodding her to go faster won’t do anything, and insteads falls back into the memories of just a few hours earlier, when Pansy splashed Hermione with lake water and Hermione had lunged at her, laughing like a small child.

“I feel like, I don’t know, like I’m this side character,” Hermione finally manages, voice wavering. “Like all I am and all I’m ever going to be is Harry Potter’s friend, faithful sidekick… like that’s all I’m ever destined to be.”

Pansy blinks, uncharacteristically speechless.

“Well?” Hermione demands, voice hard. Defensive.

Pansy starts to smile again, and it's languid, slow, self assured.

A small, careless laugh escapes her, bubbles out of her, fills her chest with light.

“Merlin, Granger, you’re an idiot. You’re a main character if I’ve ever seen one.”

Hermione scoffs uncomfortably. “Stop it.”

“C’mon. Granger. ‘Sidekick’?  _ You _ ?”

“That’s easy for you to say, Pansy,” Hermione mutters. 

Pansy waves a hand around. “You think I’ve never felt like that with Draco? Merlin, he’s so demanding sometimes, and then  _ Blaise _ , don’t even get me started. But that’s just how men are. They’re stupid and idiotic and have never been told that sometimes we just don’t want to fucking hear them talk. So we have to shut them up.” Pansy pauses, exhaling and inhaling quickly before launching into it again. “Society doesn’t want to see us, in all of our beautiful, sexy glory, they just want to see us defer to the white boy standing next to us. We can’t let it happen.”

Pansy pauses again, lets her words sink in, register, wrap around Hermione.

Carefully and quietly, she shifts and lifts herself off the floor, onto her knees, and moves closer to Hermione, whose face she can’t see in the dark. 

“The point is becoming a main character… becoming who you’re  _ truly meant to be _ .” She whispers the last part, and she sees the outline of Hermione tip her head, lean in a little bit.

She keeps moving closer to Hermione, until they’re nearly nose to nose.

“And how do you advise I do that?” Hermione almost whispers.

Pansy shoves down a shiver. “I’ll show you.”

Even though it’s so fucking difficult, Pansy pulls away, still on her knees, blinding groping for her wand. When her hand closes around it, all she has to do is whisper a  _ Lumos _ , and Hermione’s face is lit up.

Pansy’s sure hers is too, and it probably looks like one of those American horror stories, with the shadows and all that, but as she waves her hand around, making a request from the room, bright purple lipstick appearing in her grasp a moment later, she finds she doesn’t really care.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks, a laugh escaping her as Pansy nearly falls trying to balance on her knees.

“Shush. You have to declare yourself as a main character, Granger, and I’m here to help.”

Hermione rights herself in the chair, staring down at Pansy with a half grin on her lips.

Pansy nudges forward slightly, and Hermione opens her legs, allowing her to come closer, to be closer. 

Pansy’s mouth goes dry at the prospect of it. 

She can feel Hermione’s body heat, can see every line and dot and blemish on Hermione’s face. She loves it. She loves it so much she can barely take it--

Pansy shakes it off, heat spooling in her stomach. She uncaps the lipstick.

“The world isn’t ready for you, Granger,” she mutters, propping her wand against the arm of the chair so she has enough light.

She looks up, using one finger to tilt Hermione’s head down, enough so Pansy can reach.

With every breath, Hermione’s long hair brushes against Pansy’s bare arms, the soft fabric of her trousers drift across Pansy’s waist.

Pansy keeps her hand there, on Hermione’s jaw, soft but present, she doesn’t really know why, and with a steady hand that’s quickly becoming unsteady, she starts lining Hermione’s lips with purple.

The change is minute, it really is, because one second Hermione’s smirking, amused at Pansy’s sudden antics, and in another her breath is hitching, her eyes are dilating so beautifully, and her hands are drifting from where they were folded in her lap, they’re drifting, and they land on Pansy’s waist, soft fingers digging into her hips, leaving indents in her skirt.

And, Merlin, Pansy’s helpless to it.

She goes around Hermione’s lips one more time, even though now all she’s doing is messing the lining up, and again, and again, just because she can’t find the will to pull away.

She uses the edge of her finger to scrape off the edges, purple building up underneath her nail, and Hermione leans forward just a small bit, impossibly close.

It takes all of Pansy’s resolve to look up, to make eye contact with Hermione.

They’re so close that all Pansy sees is her wand’s light reflected back in Hermione’s eyes, swimming in a pool of depthless black.

Her eyes are captivating, mesmerizing, the darkest and most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen.

So black she distantly wonders that if she touched Hermione’s eyes, or maybe even those thick eyelashes that framed them, if her fingers would come away stained black, like if she dipped her fingers into a jar of ink.

The music changes, turning from an upbeat pop song to something mellower, softer, so soft Pansy can’t even make out the words.

Hermione’s eyebrows furrow, like she’s helplessly confused, and as Pansy draws herself up more, pushes closer, Hermione shudders, and they’re so close that Pansy feels it too. 

Eyes glassy, like she doesn’t know what she’s doing, Hermione delicately places a hand in hers, weaving their fingers together.

It’s Pansy’s undoing.

Their lips meet, and it’s an explosion beneath closed eyelids and a quiet drowning all in one and Pansy’s sucked into it, it’s all she’s ever needed and will ever need, and as she drops the lipstick and pulls Hermione closer, eliciting a muffled gasp from Hermione, heat blooms in her stomach, and any knot in her chest unwinds beautifully.

Hermione tastes like firewhiskey and lipstick, and her hands are coming up to cradle Pansy’s face, fingernails scraping over her jaw, pulling her closer, pulling her up, pulling her into Hermione’s lap.

Pansy finds she really doesn’t mind it.

Pansy kisses her harder, breathlessly pressing Hermione back against the chair.

Hermione rolls with it, pulling Pansy closer, closer, tongue doing things that addle her brain. 

They start into a rhythm, with hips rocking and fingers teasing through hair and tongues flicking, and Pansy might  _ die _ from it.

Thankfully, before she can, Hermione pulls away.

She’s panting and flushed, staring at Pansy in a way that makes her heart clench.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she says breathlessly, and Pansy knows it's a request, that if she didn’t want to Hermione wouldn’t make her.

But she does want to. 

Pansy nods, shifting so she’s straddling Hermione. “Okay.”

She closes her eyes, because it’s impossible to think when Hermione’s looking at her like that, and wracks her brain, but all she can come up with…

“I really like you,” she blurts, and while the sudden vulnerability makes her want to vomit, Hermione’s eyes are filling with tears and she’s clutching at Pansy’s sweater and whispering,  _ I really like you too,  _ and from there it was all so inevitable.

And it’s the beginning of December and who would have thought that this kiss would lead to seven years together and ten years apart and that in another world, another time, so far away they can’t even imagine it, that it’d be December again and they’d be sitting on a park bench,  _ their _ park bench, and that, maybe, it would all be okay again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than i thought it would. online school's a bitch. next chapter will be up soon


	3. i want to lose myself in you (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was early October of eighth year when Draco and Harry got together. It was loud and dramatic, like everything else they did with each other.  
>  It was late October when Blaise started sneaking out to the Quidditch Pitch at odd hours of the day, and it was November when someone spotted him kissing Ginny Weasley in the hall.  
>  And it was right before Thanksgiving when Ron and Lavender, hand in hand, walked into the eighth year common room and announced they were going to give it another try.  
>  And in between, it was Dean and Seamus, and Padma and Theo, and Millicent and Anthony, and all the rest, pairing up quickly and sweetly, until it felt like Pansy and Hermione were the only ones left in the entire school who weren’t in a relationship.  
>  From there, it was all so inevitable.
> 
> Ten years after Hogwarts and ten years after the most devastating breakup either of them have ever been through, Pansy and Hermione start to make their way back together again.

“Here you go, character witnesses.”

Pansy drops the thick folder onto Hermione’s desk, a self satisfied smirk on her face.

Hermione rolls her eyes but starts flipping through the folder, whistling when she sees all that Pansy’s collected in just two weeks. 

“Well, Pansy, I have to give you props for all of this. This is… pretty perfect.” 

Hermione sweeps her eyes over the pages and pages of statements Pansy has collected. At the front are Draco's and Blaise’s, of course, and those are the longest ones, Harry’s a close second, and Ginny’s is simply one page description of Pansy’s service at their wedding. She has a statement from her old boss over at the Panther ( _ he simply adores me! _ She used to croon when she came home from work), some ones from old directors, and a couple long ones from two people Hermione doesn’t know.

“Who’s Camille and Louis de Berg?” She asks, trying to be casual.

She fails, if Pansy’s snort means anything. “You don’t know who Camille and Louis de Berg are?”

Hermione shakes her head, eyes darting to Pansy.

“Famous actors, like me. My friends from New York.”

“Their statements got here very quickly.” 

Pansy shrugs. “Magic.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “You have wizard friends in New York?”

“Merlin, no. Magic from  _ me _ , not from them. They’re Muggles.”

Hermione ignores how her heart starts to race from the response, mostly because after all these years she still is desperately curious to hear about what Pansy has been up to in New York, and here she is...  _ learning _ about New York, which she never even dared dream about.

“We’re going to need more,” Hermione mutters, mostly to herself. “Do you have any friends who are considered high profile?”

“Camille and Louis,” Pansy replies smoothly, gaze flicking over her nails.

“Anyone else?”

“They aren’t high profile here.”

“Doesn’t matter. Get statements from them.”

Pansy nods, and the silence that follows is tense and thick and makes Hermione feel like she’s drowning in awkwardness, even if just two days ago they were chatting on a bench like nothing had ever been wrong.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Hermione asks, and the politeness sounds strange, even to her own ears, and makes her want to cringe and hide behind her desk.

“...no?”

Hermione sighs. Audibly. 

“Are you going to Blaise and Ginny’s party tonight?” She asks after a long moment, trying to alleviate some of the tension.

“Yeah, I am. Any idea what it’s for?”

Hermione snorts. “I have a sneaking suspicion.”

“What?” Pansy asks, leaning forward in her seat, eyes glittering.

“I’m about 99% sure Ginny’s pregnant.”

Pansy gasps dramatically, smacking the desk with a fist. “ _ No. _ ”

Hermione nods, a self satisfied grin growing on her face.

“I just saw them yesterday!”

“Was she drinking?”

Pansy’s mouth opens, then closes, like she’s thinking. “No. Oh my  _ fucking Merlin--” _

A laugh slips out of Hermione as she leans back into her chair.

“What time are you getting there?” Pansy asks, standing suddenly.

“Seven. Why?”

Pansy shakes her head slightly, eyes cloudy like she’s somewhere else. “Everyone’s going to be there, right? Of course they will. It’s a momentous celebration. I’ll have to look drop dead gorgeous. This is like… my  _ return _ to London.” Hermione snorts at her musings, snapping Pansy out of her trance. “I’ll see you at 7:30, Granger.”

Pansy leaves her office, slamming the door behind her.

Hermione stares at the closed door for longer than she would ever admit.

*

Pansy looks fucking amazing.

She spent an hour and a half getting ready, though she tells Ginny it only took her twenty minutes.

She’s in her fanciest heels, five inch black stilettos, and the only suit she brought with her to London, a fitted, dark green piece. Her suit jacket is open, tattoo on display, the only thing underneath it is a lacy bustier, the first piece of clothing she ever bought in New York. She didn’t do much with her hair, just curled it slightly, and opted for a pink color scheme for her makeup.

She looks so good that when she walked in, the apartment already packed to the brim with Weasleys, Ginny broke off a conversation with Hermione to whistle, long and sharp.

Pansy had smirked, bowing slightly, and had laughed harder than she had in months when Draco appeared at her side, swearing at her for making him look shoddy.

Ginny’s whistle announces her, which attracts a lot of curious stares from the party-goers, Draco’s swearing bringing even more attention upon her.

She loops her arm through Draco’s and lets him lead her to the kitchen, feeling several pairs of eyes on her back. 

She laughs slightly when she and Draco reach the kitchen, the sheer amount of food and drinks piled on the countertops making Pansy’s head spin. 

“You still gay, Parkinson?”

Pansy turns, scowling, ready to lob an insult, but an easy grin slides onto her face when she sees George Weasley standing in front of her, an open beer in one hand.

“Georgie!” She exclaims, smirking. “How’s your hearing?”

“What’d you say?” He replies immediately, grinning.

He looks the same, still enormously tall, a few more wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and--

“Oh Merlin, did you get  _ glasses _ ?”

George rolls his eyes, sighing slightly. “Old age does weird things to your body, Parkinson.”

Pansy cackles, parting from Draco and letting George pull her into a hug. 

“How’ve you been, Parkinson?” 

“Fine,” she says airly. “Won a few Tony’s, got rich and famous… you know, the usual.”

George grins, and they fall into easy conversation, Draco chiming in at some points. George leaves and Harry wanders over, and she chats with him, then Ginny finds her, shouting about her outfit and how good she looks, and suddenly she’s passed off to Bill and a pregnant-for-the-second-time Fleur, who congratulate her on her success in New York, and she avoids Hermione, who somehow is always in her line of vision, until she finally stumbles into Blaise, who looks jittery.

“What the fuck’s going on with you?” Pansy asks, tongue loose after a glass of wine.

“My mother just arrived.”

Pansy chokes on her wine, barely managing to spit it into the sink instead of on the floor. “You invited your  _ mother _ ?” 

He shoots her a dark look. “Yes. I didn’t think she would come, but her she is, and I can’t--”

“Shush, Blaise. Calm down. Your mother  _ loves _ me. Like,  _ loves _ me. Like, even more than Draco. I’ll keep her occupied, okay?” 

He blinks. “Are you drunk?”

She scowls. “Fucking rude.”

(She may be a little tipsy and in a good mood, but that doesn’t mean anything.)

She presses her half-empty wine glass into his hand and whirls into the main room, where she immediately spots Mrs. Zabini, lingering by the door.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Molly Weasley making her way over to where Blaise’s mom is standing, and that mixture is simply so disastrous Pansy nearly runs over to Mrs. Zabini in an effort to get there first.

“Mrs. Zabini, it’s wonderful to see you!” She calls, grabbing onto her elbow and steering the clueless woman away from the crowd and lurking Molly Weasley.

“Pansy Parkinson?” She asks, voice quiet, steel-grey eyes sweeping over her, and Pansy has to grit her teeth to keep from freezing, the Veela magic almost taking hold of her. 

“Yes, hello.”

Mrs. Zabini smiles politely. “It’s been such a long time.”

Pansy nods. “Sinfully long.”

That cracks a smile out of her, and Pansy’s stomach lurches. “Your mother tells me you moved to New York.”

Pansy forces herself to smile, knowing the mention of her mother is purposeful, a wound she meant to open, a reminder that while Pansy will never be welcome back in her mother’s arms, her mother knows everything about her. 

“I did. I took up acting, and the craziest thing is, I’m actually quite good at it. You can tell my mother that I’ve won  _ three _ Tony’s for my skills.”

Mrs. Zabini’s eyebrows flick up. “My goodness! That’s quite impressive.”

Pansy smiles, and although she hasn’t had to be her old self in a long time, the self that floated around elite parties and charmed dangerous people, she slips back into it, a dangerous smile curving up her lips.

(Her old self was the one that learned Occlumency and Legilimency secretly, just so she could trick a Muggle college student into buying her a train ticket to Germany, where she spent multiple summers, and her old self was the one that was exactly like Mrs. Zabini, with the sly insults and half disguised rude comments.)

She hates how good it feels to flip her hair over her shoulder and smirk at Mrs. Zabini, remarking casually, “How are you doing? Still stuck in that old house on the hill?”

The ‘old house on the hill’ was actually a sprawling mansion in the countryside, but the Parkinson estate had always been bigger than the Zabini estate, and she took this knowledge and dangled it in front of Mrs. Zabini, just to show that she could.

“Yes, actually. Just got rid of husband number seven, you see, so I’m planning to expand.”

Pansy laughs, fake and full. “Still got law enforcement wrapped around your finger, then?”

Mrs. Zabini’s face flickers, something akin to anger flashing over her features, but then it’s gone, so quickly Pansy can’t help but wonder if she imagined it.

“No husband or children yet, Pansy?” Mrs. Zabini asks, and it’s too quick and her eyes are too narrowed, obviously worked up by Pansy’s comment, and Pansy smiles widely, knowing she’s about to win the conversation, something her old self was impeccable at. 

“No, I still quite enjoy pussy, Mrs. Zabini.”

Mrs. Zabini sputters, eyes widening, and Pansy just smiles, patting her on the shoulder and sauntering away. 

She plans on going back to the kitchen for more wine, but is stopped by Ginny’s booming voice.

“Gather ‘round, everyone! We have an announcement!”

She sighs and turns towards the center of the apartment, where Ginny and Blaise are standing, holding hands.

They start talking, and Pansy immediately tunes them out, bored already, and lets her eyes drift, only slightly surprised when her gaze hitches on Hermione.

Hermione’s staring back at her, frowning slightly.

_ What?  _ Pansy mouths, cheeks heating.

_ How’s Mrs. Zabini?  _ Hermione mouths back, eyes flicking to where Blaise’s mom is standing at the edge of the crowd, rigid and uncomfortable. 

Pansy rolls her eyes.  _ Mentioned my mother. _

Hermione’s eyebrows rise.  _ Christ, really? _

_ Not a surprise. She’s a bitch. _

Hermione grins, but any reply she might’ve had is cut off by an uproar, which can only mean that Ginny and Blaise have made the announcement.

Sure enough, when Pansy turns her gaze back to the happy couple, Ginny’s being mobbed by her parents and brothers, who are all yelling and grinning in typical Weasley fashion.

Blaise and Draco are in a tight embrace, Harry standing by, smiling widely, and Pansy starts to make her way over, weaving in and out of Weasley children.

Draco and Blaise part, and her heart wrenches when she sees tears tracking down Blaise’s face.

She pulls Blaise into a hug, eyes shining, and tightens her grip, overcome by a feeling she can only describe as pure joy.

“I’m so happy for you,” she whispers into his ear, a laugh slipping out of her when Blaise squeezes her tightly around her waist.

They stay in the hug for far too long, way past the level of appropriateness, but Pansy can’t seem to let go, realizing how much she’s missed him all these years of being away. Besides, it gives Blaise time to get a hold on his tears before the Weasleys start mobbing him too.

“Blaise.”

Pansy sniffs and lets Blaise go, blanching slightly when she sees Mrs. Zabini standing there, looking stern as all fuck.

“Hello, Mother,” he says stiffly.

Her eyes flick over Pansy, still half in Blaise’s arms, and land on Blaise. “I’m so ashamed of you.”

Blaise tenses, and for a moment all Pansy can do is stare, her entire body frozen.

And any joy Pansy was feeling is gone, replaced by pure rage.

“You’re such a disgusting, spiteful bitch,” she snaps, shoving Blaise behind her.

Mrs. Zabini’s mouth falls open, but the blessed silence only lasts a moment, because soon her nostrils are flaring and she fires back, “Your mother is ashamed of you too.” 

There’s a hand on her shoulder and Pansy doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Hermione’s.

And Pansy has never been one to back away from a fight, especially one with an audience, and there is an audience, because any well-wishing and merry yells have died out, because of Mrs. Zabini’s words, and everyone’s staring at her, waiting for her response.

Pansy smiles cruelly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and every single moment tiptoeing around her mother’s friends and bullying first years and fighting with Draco comes back to her in a second.

“Blaise, may I?” She asks, clenching her jaw.

“Yes, you may,” he says, voice strained. 

She shrugs Hermione off and stalks towards Mrs. Zabini, forcing her to step back.

“Yes, well, my mother is a disgusting, spiteful bitch as well,” Pansy says. “And I wouldn’t be throwing words like that around, especially here, especially to  _ me _ , Mrs. Zabini.”

“You’re a disappointment to your name,” Mrs. Zabini spits out, and a delighted laugh bubbles out of Pansy, just because of how many times she’s heard that, and how little she cares.

“You know what’s a disappointment? Those goddamn earrings. And-- uh! Before you say they’re heirlooms, I saw that exact same pair in a Gucci catalogue last spring, and putting aside the fact that you bought them from a Muggle business, let’s just talk about how hopelessly last season they are.”

Mrs. Zabini’s face contorts, but before she can say anything else, Pansy’s going again.

“And what’s even a bigger disappointment? Is that Blaise had the kindness to reach out, to invite you to this beautiful event with his wife and family, and you show up just to insult him and ruin the entire fucking party for everyone, because that is what you have done.”

Mrs. Zabini stares at her, quivering with rage, and Pansy almost thinks that it’s the end of it, but then the disgusting old hag smiles.

“You can win as many awards as you want, you can think that you’re making some sort of difference with your singing and dancing, but deep down, you know that you’re a meaningless, dull girl who is better off dead than alive.”

Pansy scoffs, and she takes another step towards the old woman, who takes a step back, and it’s like some kind of sick, choreographed dance.

“I will say it once. You’re a foul, pitiful excuse for a human being, and you may leave now.”

“Blaise!” Mrs. Zabini snaps. “Defend your mother.”

Blaise blinks, and in a second he goes from Blaise to  _ Blaise _ , the one who stood next to Pansy at all those stupid elite dinners and didn’t even blink, and who talked so easily about blood supremacy he could have been talking about a sports game. 

“Leave, mother.”

Blaise’s mother sputters out an insult and turns, and the entire party watches as she turns, still trying to save face, and throws out, “Insult me all you want! I know the truth, and so do you.”

  
“Oh, fuck off,” someone mutters. Probably Ginny.

The door slams shut.

Pansy exhales and turns back to the rest of the party, whose slack-jawed, red faces make her want to vomit.

“Why the fuck are you looking at me for? Ginny’s pregnant!” She snaps, and the yells spike again, everyone surrounding the happy couple, leaving her alone.

She backs away, leaning against the wall, and watches with a close eye as Molly Weasley hugs Blaise, so hard his eyes pop out of his head, and Ron picks Ginny up and whirls her around, and happy, warm chaos fills the room again.

Draco appears beside her.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she states mechanically, and doesn’t wait for his response before walking off.

She’ll splash some water on her face, take some deep breaths, and stay for exactly fifteen more minutes before allowing herself to leave. 

She turns, goes down the hall, and is about to push into the bathroom when she hears soft cries coming from inside. 

She bites down on a growl. Blaise and Ginny only have  _ one _ fucking bathroom, taking it up to cry is extremely selfish.

She turns away, intending to just leave and end it. But, of course, not only do Blaise and Ginny only have one bathroom, their flat’s floors can’t handle more than two goddamn kilograms of weight, because the floor creaks as she turns.

She winces as the crying abruptly stops.

“Who’s there?”

_ Fuck _ . 

It’s Lavender.

Her first instinct is to run away. 

She’s exhausted, and this is obviously personal. 

But Lavender’s always been so nice to her, and Pansy remembers back in eighth year when Ron called her a Death Eater and Lavender smacked him upside the head and called him a dick. Pansy will feel like shit (even more than she already does) if she leaves.

“Lavender?” She says gently.

The bathroom door swings open, revealing a teary-eyed, red faced Lavender Brown.

“Lavender, what’s wrong?” She asks, reaching out for her.

Lavender turns, rebuffing her hand, and buries her face in a towel.

“I’m fine-- I’m okay, Pansy, just, please  _ go away _ \--”

Pansy’s so fucking exhausted, and she just dealt with one thing, and now she has to deal with another, and she really doesn’t want to fight Lavender on this one, so she just marches into the bathroom and yanks Lavender into a hug, absorbing her sobs best she can.

Pansy holds her tighter than she even held Blaise, curly, flowery-smelling hair invading her nostrils. “It’s going to be okay,” she says, even though she has no idea what’s wrong.

Lavender shudders in her arms, tears staining her suit jacket. Pansy grits her teeth, knowing that isn’t what she should be worried about, but still wincing as Lavender shudders again. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” She murmurs.

Lavender lets out a long, messy sob, and wrenches out of Pansy’s arms, falling against the countertop. “I’m  _ barren _ ,” she spits out, staring at herself in the mirror with a particular type of devastation that makes Pansy stomach lurch. 

Pansy inhales sharply. “Lavender…”

“Ron and I have been trying for kids for years. We just chalked it up to age, you know, but… we went to the doctor last month, and… and well, Molly is always talking to us about ‘when are we having kids’, ‘how many are we having’, kids this, kids that. My only consolation was that Ginny and Blaise hadn’t had kids yet, and it didn’t look like they were going to. But now, well, Ginny’s fucking pregnant--”

Lavender breaks off, and, with a gut- wrenching sob, picks up the bottle of soap on the counter and hurls it at the bathroom mirror.

The mirror cracks, and Lavender’s sobbing again, and it’s all so fucking loud, Merlin above, Pansy pulls Lavender back into her arms, muffling her cries.

Wandlessly, she repairs the mirror, but she can’t set up a silencing charm or anything of the sort without her wand, which is stowed inside her bag, back out in the living room.

“Okay, Lavender… okay, um, I’m going to Apparate you back home now, okay?” She says, desperately hoping Lavender agrees. “And then I’ll come back, and I’ll grab Ron, and I’ll grab all of your stuff, okay? But I think priority number one is getting you home right now.”

Lavender nods, half heartedly wiping away her tears.

“You haven’t moved, right?”

“No.”

Pansy steels herself, and suddenly the air is warping and any breath she once had is gone, and they’re in Lavender and Ron’s living room, and Pansy’s groaning with the effort of keeping her vomit down, staying standing, and holding all of Lavender’s weight up at the same time. 

“Okay, I’m going to get Ron. I’ll be gone for no more than five minutes, okay?”

Lavender takes a staggering step back, sniffling. “Yeah-- thank you, Pansy. I really appreciate this.”

Pansy nods, and she wants to say something else, like  _ there’s always adoption,  _ or,  _ no one is going to hate you for this,  _ but the words get stuck in her throat, sweat beading at the back of her neck when she tries to force them out, so she just mumbles, “One second,” and Apparates away.

The air is warping and she should’ve waited another second because now she  _ really _ feels nauseous. She lands back in Ginny’s and Blaise’s bathroom, so dizzy she smacks right into the wall.

“Fuck,” she spits out, clutching her stomach. She crouches, leaning against the wall, and inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales, until she feels confident enough to stand.

She strides out of the bathroom, wheeling around the corner, and immediately collides with a warm body.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” she snaps, and it takes all of her willpower not to throw up all over the person in front of her.

“Christ, Pans--”

Pansy groans, cutting her off, because  _ of course _ it’s Hermione. 

“Did you hear what just happened in there?” Pansy manages, straightening.

Hermione nods, biting her lip, like she’s unsure of whether or not she should have lied.

“Grab me Lavender’s bag and anything else she brought,” Pansy orders, pushing past her and stomping back to the party.

Ron’s at the edge of the crowd, drinking heartily, a grin stretched over his pale, pimply face, and Pansy is suddenly overcome by rage when she thinks of how this news is destroying his wife, while he’s sitting over there, enjoying his  _ beer _ .

She comes up behind him, and doesn’t bother warning him before grabbing the back of his collar and hauling him up out of his chair. He sputters, spitting beer all over himself, causing quite a commotion, and she yanks him away, out of earshot from his nosy fucking family, who’s already a little too fucking interested in what she’s got going on.

“You need to go home, right now.”

He scowls at her. “Just because you bully old women doesn't mean you get to bully me. I am a  _ grown man _ \--”

“Yes, a grown man whose wife is at home right now, crying her eyes out.”

Ron pauses, eyes widening. “Lavender said she was okay.”

“She was fucking lying, you twit. I found her in the bathroom, sobbing, and Apparated her home before she broke anything else.”

“ _ Else _ ?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “I fixed it, it doesn’t matter. Just, ugh. Go home, you massive pillock.”

Hermione appears behind the two of them, holding a sparkly bag. “Did Lavender bring anything else?” She asks Ron in that high pitched, reedy voice that means she’s panicking. 

He shakes his head, taking the bag from her. “Send my apologies to Blaise and Gin, yeah, and--”

“Just fucking go,” Pansy snaps, wanting to smack the idiotic look off his face.

He Apparates away a second later, with a loud  _ crack _ that draws the attention of everyone in the room.

Pansy sighs, slumping against the wall, casting a tired look at Hermione. 

“You okay?” She asks, dark eyes sweeping across her face.

“I think I want to leave,” Pansy murmurs, with an honesty that only Hermione can draw from her. She hates it.

“Want me to Apparate you to your place?”

Pansy snorts, straightening. “You don’t know where I’m living. Besides, I’m too nauseous to do any more Apparating.”

Hermione smiles slightly. “I’ll walk you home?”

  
“Ooh, let’s be careful, dear Hermione. Some people might get the wrong idea,” Pansy says, wriggling her eyebrows.

“Just go say goodbye to Blaise and Ginny. I’ll be here.”

Hermione’s looking at her in such a nice way, much too nice to be meant for Pansy. But it is.

“Okay.”

A couple moments later, she’s in Blaise’s arms, and he’s squeezing her so hard she can barely breathe. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in her ear.

She smiles, a small smile only for him, and lets go. “If it’s a girl, her name better be Pansy.”

“We were thinking Molly, after my mum,” Ginny says, sidling up next to Blaise.

Pansy makes a face. “Pansy-Molly sounds a little busy, if you ask me. ‘Pansy’ all by itself is better.”

Ginny giggles slightly, hand straying to her stomach. “Oh, by the way,” she adds, dropping her voice, “It was  _ wild _ the way you just absolutely  _ destroyed _ that old bitch.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Pansy responds airily, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. “Congratulations on the kid.”

Blaise coughs, clearly covering a sob, and Pansy, feeling watery too, yanks him back into a hug. 

“You’re better off without her, okay?” She whispers into his ear, and, for the second time that night, her suit jacket is stained with tears. “Now, get it together, because Molly and Arthur are lurking behind you, and if you cry in front of them they’ll never leave.”

He nods into her shoulder, sniffling, and straightens, giving her a grateful smile before turning and greeting the Weasley parents.

She waves goodbye to George, waves goodbye to Fleur, hugs Draco briefly, kisses Harry on the cheek, and ignores everyone else who tries to approach her. 

And all too soon, she’s standing in front of Hermione.

*

Harry is pale. 

Hermione can’t blame him.

Pansy is like an incredible, terrifying force, the way she picks apart Blaise’s mom, viciously and without hesitation, like it’s just another day for her.

And although she hasn’t done any such thing to Harry or Hermione in over twenty years, the speed at which she falls back into it, effortlessly,  _ happily _ almost… well, Hermione can’t blame Harry for paling. It’s a scary thought.

Mrs. Zabini leaves, and Blaise exhales, like he can finally breathe, and then Pansy’s turning around and, in a snarl that makes Hermione want to jump, is ordering everyone to look away, to focus on what’s important.

She exchanges a few words with Draco then walks off, casually, self-assured, and anyone looking would see how totally and utterly unbothered she is. Except Hermione, who knows that Pansy’s probably thinking of how long she has to stay in order to be polite before bailing. 

“Is she okay?” Harry asks as Draco approaches them. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he replies, sliding an arm around Harry’s waist. “That old woman is a fucking bitch. I would never tell Blaise this, but his mother has always been a pity-guest, you know, one of those wizards you have to invite but you really don’t want to. My parents couldn’t stand her.”

“Hopefully that’s not the same case for me?” 

Draco turns, wincing when he sees Blaise right behind him.

“Your mother’s an awful person,” is all Draco says in response, falling back onto Harry.

“Is Pansy okay?” Blaise asks. “That comment about her mom…” He whistles, low and long, and shakes his head.

Ginny appears next to him, grinning. “Yes, well, thank Merlin she’s on our side. These earrings I’m wearing are last season, and I think I would collapse in embarrassment if she pointed it out.”

Hermione laughs along and nods. “I’m going to head to the bathroom,” she says to no one, before walking off in the direction she saw Pansy go earlier.

That comment about her mother was… well, Blaise’s mom knew what she was doing when she brought it up. Pansy had brushed it off, hadn’t fixated on it, but still…

Pansy’s mother had always been a sore spot for her.

Hermione goes down the hall leading to the bathroom, and is about to push open the door when she hears someone talking. She pauses, straining her ears, and her stomach drops out when she hears a voice, unmistakably Lavender’s, snap, “I’m  _ barren _ .”

“Lavender…” Pansy’s voice, no doubt about it, muffled and strained.

Hermione sucks in a breath. What had she just walked in on?

“Ron and I have been trying for kids for years. We just chalked it up to age, you know, but… we went to the doctor last month, and… and well, Molly is always talking to us about ‘when are we having kids’, ‘how many are we having’, kids this, kids that. My only consolation was that Ginny and Blaise hadn’t had kids yet, and it didn’t look like they were going to. But now, well, Ginny’s fucking pregnant--”

Lavender stops abruptly, and suddenly there’s a yell, and Pansy’s swearing, and glass is shattering, and Hermione slams herself back against the opposite wall, heart racing. 

She fumbles for her wand, years of war coming back to her in an instant, when Pansy starts talking.

“Okay, Lavender… okay, um, I’m going to Apparate you back home now, okay?” Pansy pauses. “And then I’ll come back, and I’ll grab Ron, and I’ll grab all of your stuff, okay? But I think priority number one is getting you home right now.”

There’s a pause, and all Hermione hears is Lavender’s soft cries.

“You haven’t moved, right?”

“No.”

The  _ crack  _ of Apparition sounds, and Hermione forces herself to exhale. After a moment’s consideration, she pushes the door open, eyes widening at the glass littering the ground and the thick, pink soap covering the walls. She lifts her gaze, and although it looks like the mirror has been mostly repaired, there’s still a few spider-web-like cracks in the bottom left corner.

She waves her wand, scouring the soap off the walls with a flick of her wrist, and, whispering a spell, repairing the mirror fully. 

She hesitates before leaving again, something in her stomach nagging her to stay.

She lifts her hand, drifting her fingers over the mirror. She stares at her reflection, at the braids stretching down her back, at the slight wrinkles lining her face and the unfaded scar on her neck.  She’s just about to reach out and trace her reflection, wondering when she got so old, when Pansy slams back in the room, hitting the wall and groaning, and Hermione’s knocked back into the hallway by the force of the magic. 

She recovers slowly, grunting slightly as she slides up the wall, and barely moves before Pansy is crashing into her.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” Pansy spits, pressing a hand over her mouth like she’s about to puke.

“Christ, Pans--”

Pansy groans, sending a murderous look her way.

“Did you hear what just happened in there?” Pansy says to her after a moment, straightening, complexion still green-ish.

Hermione nods, worrying her lip. Maybe she should have lied. She should have lied, right? Fuck.

“Grab me Lavender’s bag and anything else she brought,” Pansy says quickly. She’s gone a moment later.

Hermione’s stomach lurches. 

Pansy just looked, like,  _ panicked _ .

She didn’t even look panicked when Blaise’s mom was telling her she was a waste of space, and she’s panicking  _ now _ ?

Hermione steps back into the living room, scanning for the pink, glittery bag she gave Lavender for her thirtieth birthday. She pushes through the crowd, catching a glance of Pansy yelling at Ron, and, with a triumphant shout, spots the bag draped over a dining room chair. 

She swipes it and backtracks, towards the front door, where Ron and Pansy are arguing, just hearing the tail end of their conversation.

“...was fucking lying, you twit. I found her in the bathroom, sobbing, and Apparated her home before she broke anything else.”

“ _ Else _ ?”

“I fixed it, it doesn’t matter. Just, ugh. Go home, you massive pillock.”

“Did Lavender bring anything else?” Hermione interjects, pressing the bag into Ron’s hands.

He shakes his head. “Send my apologies to Blaise and Gin, yeah, and--”

“Just fucking go,” Pansy snaps.

He’s gone a second later.

Hermione stares at the spot where he just was, feeling the uncomfortable stares of other party goers on her back. Finally, she forces herself to turn and face Pansy, who is elegantly slumped against the wall, looking so exhausted Hermione wants to hug her.

Jesus.  _ Hug _ her? It’s been a tough night.

“You okay?”

“I think I want to leave,” Pansy murmurs.

Hermione blinks, surprised by the honesty.

“Want me to Apparate you to your place?”

Pansy snorts, straightening. “You don’t know where I’m living. Besides, I’m too nauseous to do any more Apparating.”

Hermione smiles slightly. “I’ll walk you home?”

  
“Ooh, let’s be careful, dear Hermione. Some people might get the wrong idea,” Pansy says, arching her eyebrows suggestively.

Hermione can’t stop her smile from widening into a grin. “Just go say goodbye to Blaise and Ginny. I’ll be here.”

Pansy straightens, looking slightly concerned, and walks off after a muttered  _ okay,  _ and Hermione watches from a distance as she says her goodbyes.

Pansy’s been back for barely any time at all and she’s already gotten herself involved in a lawsuit, cursed out Blaise’s mother, had to help Lavender through a breakdown… it’s all very dramatic, very on brand for her.

Pansy laughs at something Ginny said, throwing her head back and eyes closing, and something stirs in Hermione’s stomach.

Something small, and otherwise inconsequential, but now it’s crawling up Hermione’s body into her chest and her throat and soon Hermione feels…  _ warm _ , all over, just because Pansy laughed.

She shoves it away, heart racing.

Jesus fucking Christ, this was  _ Pansy _ she was talking about. No warmness, no ‘stirs’, or whatever the fuck.

“Hey,” Pansy says, suddenly in front of her. “Are you ready to go?” 

Hermione turns, slinging her coat over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.”

*

_ eighth year, 17 years ago _

“How do we tell them?” Hermione asked, chewing on her lip. 

They were both in the library, trying to study for Slughorn’s upcoming test, but Hermione, for fucking once, couldn’t concentrate.

And it was all Pansy’s fault.

There’s vestiges of Pansy’s lipstick on her cheek that Hermione couldn’t quite get off, and there’s a hickey on her shoulder she covered with a jumper, and every single time Pansy looked at her from across the library table something fluttered in Hermione’s chest, and she could still feel the ghost of Pansy’s touch all over her body, like some kind of beautiful, distracting disease or something.

All in all, it’s distressing.

“Them?” Pansy asked, arching a perfect eyebrow, even though she knew damn well who Hermione was talking about.

“Do we sit them down? Take them out to dinner? Spring it on them and run away? I really don’t know,” Hermione pressed on, worrying her lip even harder, practically tearing it to shreds. 

Pansy scoffed, pencil flicking up. “You’re freaking out for absolutely no reason, Hermione. No one is going to care. Especially not Draco or Blaise.” At Hermione’s worried look she quickly added, “Or Ron or Harry.”

“Yeah, but we still have to actually  _ tell _ them, Pansy.”

Pansy shifted in her seat abruptly, leaning across the table so she was right in Hermione’s face. 

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, a small smile growing on her face as Pansy leaned closer. 

“I think your worrying is just  _ so _ sexy, Hermione Granger,” Pansy replied, smirking. She pressed closer, puckering her lips dramatically, eyes fluttering closed.

Hermione lifted a hand, skating her fingers on the underside of Pansy’s jaw, grinning when Pansy shivered in response. “You want me to kiss you? In the middle of the library?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Christ, you’re impossible.”

Hermione leaned forward, kissing her softly, smiling against Pansy’s lips as she inhaled sharply. 

“Didn’t expect that?” Hermione murmured, pulling away. 

“Oh shut it,” Pansy replied quickly, yanking Hermione back in for another kiss.

It was horribly inappropriate for a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the library, but as Hermione wound a hand into Pansy’s hair, she found she didn’t really care all that much.

After a few moments they parted, both grinning. 

“Is that your way of telling me to shut up?” Hermione asked, a soft laugh rolling through her.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“No, actually. I think we should sit our friends down and tell them all of it, appropriate and informative--”

“You want to tell them about how I grinded on your thigh while you sucked on my neck?” Pansy said, cutting in smoothly, settling back in her seat.

Hermione scowled. “No! Now, what are we going to say?”

Pansy shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But you better think of something soon.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to the library doors. Draco and Harry, linked together, like usual, Ron and Lavender, obviously discussing something important, if Ron’s red face meant anything, and Blaise, with Ginny on his arm, were all sauntering in, arms packed full with books.

Hermione turned to Pansy, a scowl on her face. “Be appropriate. I don’t want them hearing about the more…  _ explicit _ details.”

“I will say  _ whatever _ the fuck I want--”

“Hey, guys!” Hermione interjected, smiling at her friends as they sat down.

“You got the big table. That’s rad,” Ron said as he fell into a chair.

“ _ Rad _ ?” Pansy repeated, voice dripping with disdain.

“Oh, get fucked, Parkinson,” Ron responded, waving a casual hand in her direction.

Pansy’s face visibly brightened, and she made brief eye contact with Hermione before starting, “Actually, it’s funny you say that--”

“Pansy and I have something to tell you guys,” Hermione blurted, folding her hands on top of the table.

They all paused in their tasks, expressions varying from bored (Blaise) to outright nervous (Harry).

“I’m getting flashbacks to my parent’s divorce,” Lavender muttered.

Hermione couldn’t help but scowl. 

“Merlin, Hermione, are you pregnant?” Ron blurted, eyes wide.

“Oh jesus fucking  _ christ _ , Ron,” she snapped in response, directing a glare his way.

“Don’t scold him too much, Hermione, it’s a legitimate question,” Pansy murmured, eyes glittering. 

“It is  _ not _ !”

“I have to get to Quidditch in, like, five minutes. So, how long is this going to take?” Ginny asked, eyes flicking over Hermione and Pansy.

“Christ,” Hermione huffed. “Okay… Pansy and I… we’re...” Her nerves got the best of her, and she turned to Pansy, voice pleading. “I can’t say it. I have no idea why. I think it’s because they’re all looking at me.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, smirking. “Fine. I’ll say it.” She turned to the rest of them, all waiting expectantly. “Hermione and I are… well, we’re… we’ve decided to… fucking Merlin, you’re right, it’s nearly impossible to say it with them staring like that.”

Blaise sighed heavily. “For fuck’s sake, Pansy, how hard can it be--”

“You’re bug-eyed, Blaise, that’s why it’s so fucking difficult,” Pansy snapped without a moment’s hesitation.

“ _ Bug-eyed?  _ You better take that the  _ fuck _ back, Parkinson--”

“Pansy and I are together!” Hermione yelped, palms sweating. “We’ve decided to start dating.”

All chatter immediately ceased.

“That’s it?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve been spending so much time together lately I just assumed you were fucking.”

Pansy shrugged. “Well, you aren’t wrong--”

“Pansy.” 

“Right, sorry.”

“Is that why you were kissing earlier?” Harry broke in. 

Seven pairs of eyes slid to Harry.

“You saw them kissing earlier?” Ginny asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, on the way in--”

“Are you a fucking idiot?” Blaise interjected. “You saw them  _ kissing-- _ ”

“I’m  _ not _ an idiot--”

“Merlin’s balls, Harry,” Draco swore, burying his head in his hands.

“Shut up-- it’s just, they’re very affectionate-- stop looking at me like that! They’re very affectionate with each other!” 

“In his defense, you two are very affectionate,” Ron said quietly, scowling when Pansy flipped him off in response.

“So, hypothetically, if you walked in on me, just like, fully fucking myself on Hermione’s fingers, you would think that’s just friend behavior?” Pansy chimed in, cocking her head.

“Christ, Pansy,” Hermione muttered.

“No, Pansy, I wouldn’t, it’s just, I was at a distance! I didn’t want to assume anything!”

“It’s going to take you a long time to come back from this one,” Ginny said, gathering her things.

“Savior of the Wizarding World, everyone!” Pansy mocked.

Hermione reached for her hand, threading their fingers together.

“Look, Potter, look at the best friends!”

“Fuck off,” Harry snapped, face red.

“Don’t bully him, Blaise. He’s trying his best,” Draco murmured. 

“His best isn’t very good,” Pansy muttered under her breath.

“He  _ is _ the Savior of the Wizarding World, Pansy,” Hermione said, lips twitching up. 

Ron huffed. “Okay, see, if I said something like that to Pansy, she’d tell me to get fucked.”

“Are you really that insecure?” Blaise responded, eyebrows raised. 

“Get fucked, Weasley,” Pansy added, squeezing Hermione’s hand when Lavender laughed.

“Lavender!”

“I’m sorry, babe, but you totally walked into that one.”

“Excuse me, you utter plebeians, but I’m trying to study for a test,” Draco announced, prim features settling into a scowl.

Pansy scoffed. “Did you just call  _ me _ a plebeian?” 

“Yes, I most certainly did.”

Pansy yanked on Hermione’s hand, pulling her close enough so that she was practically in Hermione’s lap. “Babe, can you hex Draco? He just called me a plebeian.” 

Hermione grinned. “Would you rather it be a hex that disfigures him or makes him talk in a thick German accent?”

Pansy threw her arms around Hermione’s neck, eyes glittering. “It’s up to you.”

“I’d prefer to study without you two slobbering over each other the entire time.”

“Fucking Merlin, Malfoy, you’re one to talk. Harry touches your elbow and you get an erection,” Ron mutters.

That elicits a laugh from everyone but Draco, who just glares at Ron. He starts to say something, but Hermione tunes him out, turning back to Pansy, who’s still draped over her.

“I told you it’d go well,” Pansy murmurs.

“I should have just listened to you, huh?”

Pansy grins, brushing her lips over Hermione’s. “Trust in me, Granger.”

*

“Do you ever wonder what went wrong between us?” Pansy says, and there’s really no excuse for what she just said, the humongous bomb she just set off. Nothing struck her, nothing inspired her, it’s just cold out, like, ridiculously cold, and she has missed London, and why the fuck not? She and Hermione never talked about their relationship after it ended, mostly because Pansy fucked off to America right after, and it’s ten years later, and she’s moved on, Hermione has too, there’s no reason not to talk about it. And they’re alone, and Pansy looks over and sees Hermione, profile stark in the dim street light. So she says it.

To her surprise, all Hermione does is laugh.

“How many drinks have you had?” 

Pansy scowls slightly, bundling her jacket around her a little tighter. “Rude. I’m perfectly sober, thank you very much. I just… want to know.”

Hermione’s still laughing. 

“You’ve never thought about it?” Pansy presses, and maybe she  _ is _ drunk, because in what world does she openly offer up that she herself has thought about their breakup?

Hermione stops laughing and actually looks at her, eyebrows slanted down. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’ve always wondered. For a while there, I mean, for a couple years, didn’t it seem like, I don’t know…”

“We seemed indestructible, didn’t we?” Hermione murmurs.

Pansy nods. “We did.” She inhales, knowing she can’t go back from what she's about to say. “And then we weren’t.”

She chances a look at Hermione, who’s smiling slightly, in this sad, depressing sort of way. 

“It felt like you had cheated on me again,” she whispers.

The statement hangs in the air as they walk, making Pansy clench her jaw.

“I didn’t.”

Hermione lifts a shoulder. “I know you didn’t. And that girl… well. I got over it. But I’m talking about later, right at the end. I was going out of my mind paranoid, because I knew that you wouldn’t, not again, but it… Christ, it felt like you did.” She pauses, still smiling sadly. “You talked about other girls you’d see at the club right in front of me, and that just drove me mad, but… I don’t know, I think the real kicker was that you wouldn’t touch me. You seemed disgusted with me, and I had no idea why.”

“I was never disgusted with you.”

“Oh?” Hermione says, very delicately, like it’s her first time every saying it.

Pansy exhales slowly, trying to find the right words. “I felt very…  _ rejected _ , at the end. So I’d talk about other girls, try to play hard to get, you know, so you’d look at me again.”

Hermione snorts. “So the issue was that you wouldn’t touch me and I wouldn’t look at you? If only we’d known.”

Pansy smiles.

“Christ, everything was so fucked at the end. Do you remember how we couldn’t even stand to be in the same bed together, so we’d magically enlarge it--”

“So we didn’t think the other was there. I remember.” Pany laughs slightly. “Merlin, those first few years after our breakup, I never thought I’d be able to look you in the eye again. When I’d think about how every night, I’d magically enlarge the bed, I just burst into tears. And here I am,  _ laughing _ about it.”

“That’s what time does.”

“If only it didn’t take so bloody long.”

Hermione laughs a little at that.

They keep walking, the only sounds are their footfalls.

And Pansy rejoices in the silence, how London looks at night, and she misses New York, yeah, but this place is so beautiful too.

She wants to tell Hermione how much she’s missed London, but before she opens her mouth Hermione’s speaking, jaw visibly clenched.

“What was her name again?” 

Pansy slows to a stop, flashes of yelling and soft white skin against hers and overwhelming guilt and  _ how could you  _ echoing in her ears.

“I don’t even remember.”

It’s a lie. She does remember. Lola. She had been coming to Panther for a couple weeks. She had a boyfriend. Hermione and Pansy had just fought. Pansy came to work, and Lola wouldn’t stop eyeing her. It was easy.

It was devastating.

“You’re lying.”

Pansy sighs. “You don’t believe me?”

Hermione meets her gaze, eyes shining. “What was her name, Pansy? Please?”

“I don’t want you to torture yourself.”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

“You  _ just _ said that you got over it.”

“Maybe that was a lie too.”

Pansy starts walking again.

Hermione follows, a few steps behind.

“I seem to recall that she was blonde, because during one of our fights you called her a ‘blonde bitch’, which implies that she’s white--”

“Lavender’s blonde, but she’s black,” Pansy interjects, knowing Hermione’s lawyer voice.

“Lavender’s a special case.” A pause. “I imagine her in my mind as a Leia. Or a Lily.”

Pansy tenses. 

“She was straight, I remember that too. ‘She came in with her boyfriend,’ you said, all those years ago.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You were the one who brought this up!”

“I just wanted to know why our relationship didn’t work out! Not get put through the third degree about some girl I hardly remember.” 

“It hurts more that you hardly remember her.”

Pansy balls her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms.

“Merlin, fine. Her name was Lola, okay? Lola. Are you happy now?”

Silence hangs in the air, tense and thick.

Pansy stops again, turning around, ready to apologize, when she sees Hermione’s grin. “Christ, I’m good.”

Pansy blinks. “Did you just--?”

“I literally argue and manipulate for a living, Parkinson. Jesus Christ, I broke you so fast. You should be ashamed.”

Pansy rolls her eyes, scowling. “You’re impossible.”

“I may be impossible, but I also know when someone’s trying to hustle me. You, obviously, don’t.”

“Hustling is when you get money out of someone.”

“No, hustling is a general term.”

“Hustling is a very specific thing--”

“I’m a lawyer!”

“I lived in New York!”

“You’re a bitch.”

A startled laugh bursts out of Pansy. “Did you just call me a  _ bitch _ ?”

“Too far?”

Pansy grins. “Yeah. Yeah, too far.”

“Well, one would argue that calling one a bitch isn’t as bad as cheating on your girlfriend of five years but, hey, what do I know?”

Pansy bites down on a retort, knowing it’ll do more harm than good.

“I am very sorry about that, you know.”

“I know. Pansy, it was twelve years ago. You obviously regret it, I forgave you. It’s… how it is.”

“I wish every day I hadn’t.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“You really think so?”

“Our relationship ran its course. We both knew it. And yet… we held onto it so tightly, so desperate to bring it back, to make it better again… it just made it worse.”

“That’s very insightful of you, Granger.”

“Granger?”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“My name is  _ Hermione _ .”

“I called you Granger for years before we dated.”

“Yeah. But then we dated. Pansy…” Hermione trails off, looking around, like she’s making sure they’re alone.

“Pansy what?”

Hermione leans in, dark eyes wide. “We were  _ lovers _ , Pansy.”

Pansy snorts, and it’s certainly not the best joke in the world, but suddenly she’s laughing so hard she thinks she feels tears in her eyes, and it is just like all those years ago, when they’d dance around the kitchen together and make fun of actors in bad movies together and braid each other’s hair even though they couldn’t braid and would fall into each other’s arms after a sinfully bad joke and during lazy kisses when one of them would burp and it’s such a stupid fucking word but it feels so warm, so safe.

“I’m still calling you Granger.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t.” 

*

_ end of eighth year, 17 years ago _

It’s June and it’s hot out and everyone’s outside, soaking up the sun before they have to get on the train back to stinky, smoggy London, and Pansy and Hermione are no different, and they’re sitting in the shade of a tree, and they should be packing, but it can wait, because they’re in the shade of a tree, and Hermione’s lying with her head in Pansy’s lap, nearly asleep, while Pansy reads aloud from Hermione’s favorite book which is, strangely, 1984 by George Orwell.

_ You read 1984 to feel better? _

_ Yes, of course.  _

_ It’s 1984 by George Orwell. Merlin, you’re demented. This is your comfort book? _

_ Yes it is! _

_  
__It’s about the fall of society, and control, and torture--!_

_  
__But it’s really well written._

_ But what about-- _

_ Yes, I know.  _

_ You didn’t even let me finish! _

_  
__I knew what you were going to say._

Hermione reaches up, presses a soft kiss against Pansy’s jaw, and falls back down again.  _ Good night.  _ Pansy laughs and cards a hand through Hermione’s hair.  _ It’s the middle of the afternoon.  _ She doesn’t receive a response. The entire thing is almost pulled directly out of a fairy tale, and Pansy’s heart clenches. 

She whispers  _ I love you  _ into Hermione’s hair, the first time she’s ever said that to anyone, the first time she’s ever said it at all, really.

Hermione grins and rolls over, whispers it back.  _ I thought you were asleep.  _ Pansy says, but she’s smiling, and there are tears in her eyes.  _ Do you wanna take it back then?  _ Hermione replies, reaching for Pansy. Pansy leans down, meeting her halfway.  _ I love you. I love you too. _

They kiss.

And they’re in the shade of a tree, it’s June, it’s hot out, it’s their last day at Hogwarts,  _ ever _ , and they whisper  _ I love you _ back and forth and it’s all that matters.

It’s like a dream.

*

“We’ve got a court date.”

Pansy’s barely in her chair but Hermione is bursting with the news, hands folded on top of the desk and eyes creased in excitement.

(She was going to call Pansy last night but decided not to, instead deciding to save it until she could actually see the reaction on her face.)

“Really?”

Her eyebrows flick up slightly, which, in Pansy language, means she’s shocked and excited.

“Yes. It’s a month and a half from now.”

“A month and a half? That’s so far away!”

Hermione snorts. “It was either that or five months from now, so. You’re welcome.”

Pansy rolls her eyes, lips pressed in a thin line, and pushes a paper cup across Hermione’s desk.

“What’s this?”

“Coffee.”

“You got me coffee?”

“You’re giving me free lawyer help. I figured it’s the least I can do.”

“Lawyer help? How eloquent.” She sips it, and a maelstrom of flavors hits her all at once, caramelly and sugary and thick, and she cringes, barely managing to swallow it. “Christ almighty, that’s sweet.”

Pansy sips hers and pulls a face. “Fucking ew-- I must have accidentally switched ours. Here-- here’s your bland black coffee.”

“It’s not bland, it’s rich. Besides, everything must be bland to you if you drink that every morning.” Hermione takes her coffee from Pansy, and when she raises her lips to the edge of the cup, she tastes lipstick and  _ Pansy,  _ so strong she has to pause and let her mind catch up with her body.

“Is something wrong with it?”

Involuntarily, Hermione’s tongue swipes across her lips, and she tastes even more lipstick and even more Pansy, and it makes her want to scream and run away.

She smiles politely at Pansy and goes back to the pages in front of her. “It’s good. Thank you.”

  
Pansy gives her a look, a look Hermione doesn’t even want to think about deciphering, because she’s already so angry with herself for doing this… this  _ casual _ and  _ friendly _ little coffee break with Pansy, when she  _ promised _ herself that she would stay strong, stay  _ distant _ . And she hates how her heart thudded when she tasted Pansy’s lips again, no matter how indirectly, and she hates that Pansy doesn’t even have to be here, but she is, and she brought fucking coffee, and it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

“I need to ask you a favor,” Pansy says, locking eyes with Hermione.

“Ah, so  _ that’s _ what the coffee was for.”

“I don’t deny it.” Pansy says defensively, eyes narrowing. “Ugh, anyway, I’m going out with Harry and Draco tonight.”

Hermione can’t help her snort. “Alone? Very brave of you.”

“Well, that’s the thing. Blaise was supposed to come with, but…”

“Ginny.”

“Yes. He doesn’t want to leave Ginny alone. So--”

“You want  _ me _ to come with you?”

Pansy nods, looking put out.

Hermione bites down on her grin. “Well, Pansy, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m actively working on two cases right now. One of which, well, is  _ yours _ , and the other, which happens to be the biggest of my career.”

Pansy’s eyebrows flick up. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“You want to know?”

“I know we aren’t as close as we used to be, Granger,” Pansy says simply, sipping her coffee. 

Hermione waits for someone else, a ‘but’ or ‘and so’, but it doesn’t come. Pansy stares at her expectantly, and Hermione can’t help but stare back.

“Leo Folley,” she finally says, eyes darting back to the notes in front of her.

“You’re fucking with me,” Pansy responds immediately, and Hermione feels something akin to satisfaction run through her at the shocked tone.

“I can’t say anything else about it.”

“Bullshit! Hermione, come on. Hermione. You have to tell me. You’re representing infamous murderer and star of the Daily Prophet  _ Leo fucking Folley _ .”

Hermione raises her gaze, smiling slightly. “ _ Alleged _ murderer, though I guess I can’t deny he does dominate the news.”

“ _ Hermione _ .”

“Wow, I guess it only took two days for you to start calling me Hermione. Real strong will you have.”

Pansy scowls. “Shut it.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk?”

Pansy groans, slumping back in her chair. “You’re such a fucking lawyer.”

Her smile stretches into a grin. “Well, that is my job.”

Pansy meets Hermone’s gaze, smiling too, and then it happens.

Her stomach stirs again.

And it’s familiar, achingly familiar, so  _ fucking _ familiar, because this is what she felt all those years ago, when Pansy’s hand first touched hers, and when they first kissed, and all those years after.

And she  _ can’t _ be feeling it now, because this is Pansy fucking Parkinson, and it didn’t work out ten years ago and it won’t work out now.

“I can’t go tonight,” she says firmly.

Pansy’s eyes narrow the slightest bit.

“Okay.”

*

“Pansy, what are you even fucking  _ doing _ ?”

Harry and Draco are both fucking lightweights, and even though they’ve barely been at this bar for an hour,  _ both _ of them are already drunk as fuck.

Pansy, unfortunately, is not.

“What are you talking about, Draco?”

“You’re, like,  _ hanging _ out with Hermione. What the fuck?”

Harry nods along, eyes wide. “He’s right, Pansy. What the fuck?”

“Why is it any of your fucking business?” She snaps, downing another glass of wine.

“Because, uh, when you two fight again,  _ we’ll _ have to-- we’ll have to deal with it,” Draco says, words slurring, cheeks pink.

“How do you know you won’t fall in love with her again?” Harry interjects, swaying on his feet.

Pansy clenches her jaw as tight as she can. “How do you survive being as stupid as you are?”

They both gasp, stumbling into each other, directing unfocused glares her way. “Rude!”

She turns away and orders another glass of wine. 

“Are your friends okay?” The bartender asks her, nervously glancing over to where Harry and Draco are muttering to each other. 

“Other than needing intensive therapy, yeah.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The bartender slides the wine to her and moves away, leaving her alone. Well, not alone.

“But Pansy, sheriously, I’m worried about you. What if you get hurt again?” 

“ _ Sheriously _ ? I wasn’t aware that was a word.”

“Shut up!” Draco huffs. The huff sends a lot of air her way, and she cringes as Draco’s warm, whiskey-scented breath is blown right in her face. 

“Fucking gross, Draco.”

“We’re getting off topic!” Harry announces to no one, sliding in between Draco and herself. “Pansy. We’re concerned for you. We don’t want anything to happen that makes you not want to stay here anymore.”

“I’m leaving March 1st anyway, Harry,” she says flatly, locking eyes with him.

He starts crying.

“Oh Merlin above,” she mutters to herself, leaving Draco to comfort him. Knowing Drunk Draco however, it’ll only be minutes until he’s crying too. “Excuse me! Bartender!”

The bartender comes back over, outright staring at Harry crying. “Yeah?”

“Do you have an owl, or a cat, or something?” 

His eyes slide to her, suspicious. “We do. For calling cabs, though. Are you calling a cab for this one?” He asks, gesturing to Harry and a now misty Draco.

Pansy nods, even though she knows the lie will be uncovered when a cab doesn’t arrive.

The bartender whistles, and a slim, brown cat jumps up onto the bar and slinks over to Pansy, shoving its face in hers. The bartender tosses a pad of paper and a pen her way.

“Attach a note to her collar, she’ll go to the taxi station.”

“Uh-huh.” Pansy grabs the paper and pen, scribbling out a few words, and tucks it into the cat’s collar. “Alright, cat. I don’t know how intelligent you are, but based on how clean you are, I’m assuming the best. So I’m going to need you to go to Granger and Associates Law, not the cab place.”

The cat stares at her, blinking its wide eyes, then lets out a tinny ‘meh’.

And then the cat’s gone.

She turns her attention back to the lousy drunks to her left.

*

It’s eight o’clock, and Hermione should just go the fuck home, but she  _ can’t _ , she won’t let herself, because if she can just finish highlighting this last page, she can sleep in an extra hour tomorrow. And she’s going to need that hour, because, you know, she’ll probably be here until nine.

She takes a deep breath, a disgusting energy drink at the ready, and raises her wand. Methodically, carefully, she picks up multiple highlighters and spreads out multiple documents with a wave of her wand, and with a flick, she’s putting all of her concentration into highlighting  _ only _ the conversations Officer Dollard had with Folley from September 1st- October 1st. She closes her eyes, letting the magic guide her, and, hoping her concentration doesn’t waver, puts down her wand.

She can still hear the scraping and swishing of highlighters moving, of pages being flipped, and smiles slightly.

She’s never done this with so many moving pieces, and it relieves her that it actually worked. There’s fifteen things going on right now, and if she keeps her concentration, she’ll be out of here by a quarter to nine.

“ _ Meh. _ ”

Hermione shrieks, heart racing, and all the highlighters and pages fall out of the air, littering her desk and the floor. 

A small cat is sitting in front of her, perched on her desk, staring at her with wide, blue eyes.

“You scared the bloody hell out of me!” She tells it. It doesn’t respond. “Where did you come from? How did you get in here?” When she’s again met with only silence, she mutters, “Fucking magical cats.”

“Meh,” it says again, stretching its neck out, and Hermione finally notices the note on its collar. She takes it, unfolding it, and can’t help smile when she sees what’s scribbled on it.

_ Harry’s crying. I’m not strong enough. Please save me, almighty ‘Hermione’. _

Hermione puts down the notes, still smiling slightly, and looks around, sighing at the mess that’s been made. If anything, she’s worse off now than she was an hour ago. 

She has two options. Go out with her friends, save Pansy from a hurricane of emotions or stay and fix everything, then finish the rest of her work, which will most definitely keep her here until ten.

She swishes her wand, arranging everything in neat piles. 

She examines the stationery on the note, nodding when she sees  _ Lucia’s Tavern _ in loopy script.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers to the cat. The cat  _ meh _ ’s again, and disappears a moment later.

She takes a deep breath. She can control herself. Just no drink-swapping with Pansy.

Hermione Apparates away.

*

Pansy is beginning to feel anxious. It’s been a while, and no sign of Hermione. What if that fucking cat actually went to the cab place? 

Pansy _needs_ someone else here. Both Harry and Draco are weeping now, and she’s getting weird looks because of it. And she’s tried _everything_ to stop them. Well, not exactly _stop_ _them_ , more like… _save herself_. Like, she tried to distance herself from them, but they kept shrieking her name. She tried putting muting charms on them, but that just made them more upset, so she had to take the charms off. And of course, because he’s a spiteful child, Draco decided that, because of her audacity to silence him, he will talk even more.

“ _ Draco _ ,” she says in a harsh whisper. “Stop. It.”

He doesn’t stop, instead choosing to monologue even louder. 

“Harry, tell him to stop.”

“We-- we just get so  _ old _ so  _ fast,”  _ Harry responds with a sob. 

“Where’s your cab?” The bartender asks, leaning against the bar, wiping a glass absentmindedly, glaring at Harry and Draco. 

“I’ve no fucking idea,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “Then again, this is your system, not mine.”

He blinks at her, surprised. 

She stares him down. 

She’s so focused on intimidating this random man that she doesn’t even notice when someone slides onto the stool next to her.

“Has he started talking about his father yet?”

Pansy blinks, yanked out of her staring contest, and turns, yelping in delight when she sees Hermione. “Oh thank fuck!”

Hermione grins at Pansy, for one unfiltered second, and then it’s gone, replaced by an unreadable look.

“Has Draco started talking about his father yet?” She repeats, glancing at Draco, farther down the bar.

“No.”

“Okay, then we still have time.”

“ _ Time _ ?”

“To get him home in one piece. Usually we Apparate, but when he starts talking about his father he gets so…  _ unruly _ the Apparition gets dangerous. One time Harry lost both his eyebrows.”

Pansy snorts. “Bartender, a glass of wine for the lady.” 

“Pansy, we have very little time before the Lucius talk starts,” Hermione says, slightly condescendingly.

“Then drink quickly, Granger.”

Hermione makes a noise of discontent but accepts the glass, looking worriedly at Harry and Draco every few seconds.

Pansy orders another too.

“So, how was ‘working’?”

“It was actually going really well, but then a cat appeared out of nowhere and distracted me.”

Pansy clicks her tongue. “Fucking magical cats. Such a nuisance.”

“I know right,” Hermione replies, lips twitching up.

Pansy’s about to say something else, something witty and clever, when she hears Draco say, “... and my father! Merlin above!”

“Oh, fucking A,” she mutters, sliding some money to the bartender. She gets out of her seat, Hermione right behind her.

“I told you.”

Pansy shoots her an annoyed glance. “Thank you. I very nearly forgot.”

“You get Draco, I get Harry?” Hermione suggests, chewing on her lip.

Pansy’s eyes are drawn to it, the way Hermione’s lips swell, redden as she worries them. She can’t look away, and Merlin, she must be drunker than she thought because she _ can’t look away _ , and Hermione’s looking at her weirdly, but all that’s running through her head is  _ I know what those feel like. I know what those taste like.  _ And she can’t look away.

“Pansy.”

Pansy snaps out of it, already feeling the heat rush to her face. “I got Draco.” She grabs his arm and, although it’s considered uncouth to Apparate indoors, spirits away, the familiar  _ i-can’t-breathe-fuck-this-my-stomach-hurts  _ feeling running thorugh her and suddenly she’s landing in his living room, and he’s shouting and swearing at her about being a dick.

Draco runs to the kitchen, presumably to throw up, and Hermione appears a second later with a groaning Harry next to her. “Where’s Draco?”

Pansy doesn’t answer, instead letting his loud retches speak for her.

Harry groans again, falling to his knees.

“Should we just knock them out?” Hermione asks, crouching, patting Harry’s back.

“No,” Pansy says, sighing. “We have to, like, legitimately  _ help _ them, I guess.”

“Will that be too much for you?” Hermione teases, throwing an arm around Harry’s torso. Pansy pulls a face at her, crouching also to help haul Harry up.

“You’re a sloppy drunk, Potter,” she mutters.

“I’m-- I’m  _ worried _ , Pansy,” he manages, head lolling to the side.

“And stupid,” Hermione admonishes. “We’ll just drape him on the bed, yeah?”

Pansy nods, and with an almost herculean effort, they manage to get him sprawled out on the bed, fully clothed and hiccupping. 

“Do you think Draco’s going to be magically okay?” Hermione asks, sighing, tying her braids up out of her face. 

Pansy snorts. “When pigs fly.”

“Well, that’s wonderful for us then.”

Side by side, they walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, and are greeted with the sight of a vomiting Draco Malfoy, hunched over the sink, hair flopping in his face.

“Yikes,” Hermione murmurs, wincing.

“Oh, Jesus, Draco,” Pansy snaps, rushing over and holding his hair back as he convulses again. “You should never get drunk. Ever. I’m not going to let you.”

Draco tries to respond, but all that comes out of his mouth is a halfhearted growl, before he falls over the sink again.

Hermione drifts over, looking worried. “Is he going to live?”

“He fucking better.”

Hermione snorts and starts rubbing Draco’s back. “Draco? Do you want to go to bed?”

“It’s only eight, Hermione, I’m not tired,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.

“Harry’s in bed,” Pansy chimes in, voice flat.

Draco slumps into Pansy’s arms. “I really shouldn’t drink.”

“Lightweight,” Pansy murmurs, grunting as she hauls Draco up, arms burning with the effort. “Okay, let’s go.”

Hermione grabs one of Draco’s arms and slings it over her shoulder, taking some of the burden off of Pansy. “ _ Fuck _ , he’s heavy.”

“I don’t know why, he’s all skin and bone,” Pansy replies, voice strained with the effort.

“I can  _ hear _ you, you bloody, uh, you bloody  _ fucks-- _ ”

“Shush, Draco, time for bed,” Hermione interjects.

Pansy tries not to let her grin show.

They make it to the bedroom, heaving Draco up onto the bed next to Harry.

“Should we do anything else?”

“They have to have a hangover potion somewhere in this bloody place, shouldn’t they?”

“I’ll grab it,” Hermione says, disappearing into the bathroom.

Pansy sighs and watches as Draco and Harry, both pale and sweaty, try to get more comfortable on the bed.

“Draco,” Harry mutters, eyes screwed shut, hand groping blindly. “Where the fuck are you?”

Draco groans, shoving his face into his pillow. “Shut up, Harry. It’s too hot to cuddle.”

“Did you just say ‘cuddle’? Who the fuck says  _ cuddle-- _ ”

“Shove it, Potter.”

Pansy scoffs and leaves them to their old-person bickering, making her way back into the kitchen.

The sink and counters are covered in Draco’s vomit, making her gag, and she casts a legion of cleaning spells to scrape it away and eliminate the smell.

Next, she summons a pad of paper and pen and, in broad script, writes  _ I forgot how fucking stupid you two are when drunk. Remind me to never talk to you two again. Kisses, Pansy ♡ _

She writes another heart, snickering to herself.

“What are you laughing about?”

Pansy shrieks in surprise, stomach dropping out, pen slipping out of her grasp. “Bloody fuck, Granger! Scare the shit out of me why don’t you!”

Hermione grins. “Jumpy tonight, aren’t we?” Her eyebrows furrow slightly. “What are you writing?”

Pansy slams a hand down on it, putting on her best casual face. “Nothing. Just a reminder that they need to drink some water and the Hangover potion. You know. The usual.”

“Liar.”

“That’s offensive.”

“Liar.” 

Pansy scowls at Hermione. “Fine. Maybe I am lying. But it’s none of your business! It’s a personal note for Harry and Draco.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare, but she nods, acquiescing. “So. What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“You dragged me out of the office! So, what are we going to do now? The night isn’t over, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Here, let’s see if Harry and Draco have any good alcohol.” Pansy yanks the fridge open, yelping as a few tupperwares full of food fall out. “Well, their skills obviously aren’t in organizing.”

Hermione mutters something to herself and sweeps up all the food, stacking the containers neatly and shoving them to the back of the fridge. 

“Ah! Gin!” 

“Ginny?”

“No, gin, like alcohol.” Pansy pulls out two bottles of gin, yelling triumphantly. “See? One for each of us.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but takes a bottle. “They’re going to be so angry at us.”

“Well, we could have left their weepy, drunk arses on the street, but we didn’t, so I think they should be  _ very _ grateful.”

Pansy opens the bottle and, lifting the edge to her lips, takes a long, burning swig. The gin settles in her stomach, mixing with the wine, and she looks at Hermione, who looks at her, and suddenly they’re both on the leather couch Draco paid way too much for, watching blurry cartoons on the TV Draco and Harry rarely use, and the clock says 2 am.

It’s similar, it’s dangerous, but Pansy’s too drunk to notice.

“Granger, change the station. I h-  _ hate _ Muggle commercials,” Pansy almost-shouts, words slurring together.

“Hermione,” Hermione corrects.

“Granger.

“You called me ‘Hermione’ in your note,” Hermione murmurs, a smug smile on her face.

“Oh shut it.”

“You did though. Don’t deny it.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly. Draco had just said that the best years of his life were behind him, I was panicking.” Pansy pauses, and she knows that the alcohol is the only thing allowing her to say this. “I’ve missed so much, you know? I forgot how-- how  _ bad _ they were. How… how much  _ darkness _ there still is inside of them.”

Hermione takes a while to respond. 

“You have missed a lot,” she almost-whispers. “But you’re back, right? For a little bit, at least.”

“Yeah, but then I go back. I’m going to miss the birth of Ginny’s and Blaise’s kid, for fuck’s sake.”

“If being away bothers you so much you don’t have to go back,” Hermione says, and it’s a ridiculous statement, they both know it, because they’re both intimately aware of how much Pansy can’t stand staying in London, that it reminds her too much of bad things and bad people, and that even though she hates being away from Draco and Blaise and everyone else, it’s the price she has to pay for sanity.

The thought is sobering, it forces Pansy to sit up straight and fight through the haze of alcohol, to  _ think,  _ to  _ feel _ , to  _ recognize _ .

Pansy focuses on the flickering TV screen in front of her, folding her legs underneath her. “You know I have to go back.”

“I know.” A pause. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Pansy clenches her jaw, tears welling up in her eyes, and although she never does anything impulsively, she reaches over, threading her fingers through Hermione’s.

“I never wanted to leave you. Leave  _ us _ .” 

“I know.” A soft, sad laugh. “I know. I knew, all those months you kept slyly mentioning New York. I didn’t like it though. I ignored it.”

Pansy smiles slightly. “If only it had gone away.”

Hermione squeezes Pansy’s hand. “You’re happy in New York, right?”

Pansy nods, whispers  _ yes,  _ because even though her apartment is empty when she comes home at night and when she wakes up in the morning, she’s never felt more deliriously happy than when she’s on the stage, and when she’s receiving applause, and when her castmates are hugging her and yelling to her, and she knows that she could never receive that in London. Not like how she wants, anyway.

“If you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

Pansy knows that’s not true.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Pansy says, and even though she doesn’t want to say them, the words are spilling out of their own accord, making her want to cringe and run away and scream  _ yes I miss you but you must never know _ , but in the brief silence she hears Hermione’s soft inhale and out of the corner of her eyes she sees Hermione smile, and it makes it all worth it. “I didn’t even realize how much until I came back. I’ve missed talking to you, listening to you mutter, all that.” She pauses. “I miss being your friend,” she finishes flatly, knowing it’s not exactly the truth, but close enough to it.

Hermione laughs softly, squeezing Pansy’s hand. “I’ve missed being your friend too. Can we be friends again?” 

Pansy does not smile.

She does not shift closer to Hermione, so she can smell her coconut-scented hair, and she does not whisper  _ let’s be friends again, Granger,  _ and Hermione definitely does not laugh, shove her away,  _ say my actual name,  _ and they definitely don’t stare at each other for a bit too long before turning back to the TV.

Pansy doesn’t fall asleep that night with Hermione’s hand in hers.

*

_ Christmas, 16 years ago _

“What if they don’t like me?” Pansy asked again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They’re going to love you, Pans. It’s not even a question.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Pansy. You’ve managed to charm  _ Molly Weasley _ . Even Fleur still hasn’t quite accomplished that.”

“And Fleur wasn’t a Death Eater, so it makes it more impressive,” Pansy muttered, fidgeting with her scarf.

Hermione shot her a dark look. “Pansy…”

“I know.”

Hermione nodded to herself, fixing her hat and pulling off her gloves. She flicked the car’s ignition off, giving them two minutes before the heater officially stopped thrumming and the car would become a frozen hell.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for Pansy’s hand. “I promise they’re going to love you. Okay?”

Pansy nodded, and although in a few moments her mask of casual self-assuredness would be firmly in place, at the moment she just looked nervous.

Hermione squeezed her hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“They’re just my parents, okay? Easy.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Says you.”

“Yes, ‘says me’. And I happen to be The Brightest Witch of Our Age, so you should listen to me.”

“Yes, well, The Brightest Witch of Our Age can’t cook for shit,” Pansy muttered, smirking slightly.

Hermione sighed, faking offense. “You always pick on my one flaw.”

Pansy grinned. “Yes, your  _ one _ flaw--”

“Shush, Pansy! It’s time to go,” Hermione interrupted, trying to keep the juvenile grin off her face. 

Pansy directed a half hearted glare Hermione’s way. “I really hope I don’t ruin Christmas.”

Hermione leaned over, pecking Pansy on the cheek. “Me too.”

She slipped out of the car immediately after, smiling so widely at Pansy’s yell her cheeks hurt. She made her way up the slippery drive, Pansy grumbling behind her, and rang the bell to her parent’s new house, a small cottage in Greenwich. 

“It’s going to be fine,” she whispered to Pansy, grabbing her hand.

“I sure hope so.”

“The thing I love most about you is your optimism, I think.”

Pansy’s retort was cut off by the door opening.

It all happened very fast, because one minute Pansy was grumbling and the next Hermione’s parents were yelling and hugging her, and Pansy looked so alarmed Hermione had to hide her laugh in her hand. 

“Mum, Dad,” Hermione said, embracing both of them. “This is Pansy, Pansy Parkinson, my girlfriend.”

Her dad nodded vigorously, eyes wide. “We’ve heard so much about you, Pansy.” Her mom nodded along, grabbing Pansy’s hand and yanking her through the door. Hermione followed a few steps behind, cautiously optimistic. “We’ve just been constantly asking Hermione, ‘where is that girlfriend of yours!’ and she just kept saying, ‘not right now’ and so finally we said, ‘bring her for Christmas!’ And here you are! It all works out, huh?”

Pansy let out a nervous laugh, something Hermione had never heard from her before, and nodded. “Thank you so much for hosting--”

“It’s no issue, sweetie!” Her mom cut in, forcing a plate into Pansy’s hands. “Are you hungry? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Pansy nodded, a soft smile gracing her lips. Hermione’s heart soared.

Two hours whirled by in an instant, two hours of Pansy shooting Hermione looks whenever her parents weren’t looking, and Pansy politely declining food but more being piled on her plate anyway, and Pansy hiding her shining eyes with a sleeve after Hermione’s parents gave her a leather-bound notebook to ‘write all her song lyrics in’, and them basically ignoring Hermione the entire time just to talk to Pansy, which Hermione was perfectly fine with.

The highlight of Hermione’s evening was when her parents bustled away to get dessert and Pansy looked at her.

Nothing fancy, all that happened was Pansy looked at her, but there was something in her gaze that made Hermione’s heart skip a beat, like,  _ I love that you were right about this _ , and Hermione mouthed,  _ I love you,  _ and Pansy rolled her eyes and looked away.

The end of the night came quickly, and suddenly Pansy was being embraced and cooed over all over again. 

“I’m going to talk to them for a second,” Hermione murmured. 

Pansy nodded. “I’ll wait in the car?”

Hermione watched as she unsteadily made her way to the car ( _ Don’t wear heels, it’ll be icy.  _ A scoff.  _ I always wear heels! _ ) and, when Pansy was not at risk of falling down, turned back to her parents.

“So?”

“So what?”

“You always have an opinion,” Hermione muttered, running a hand through her hair, finger hooking on a curl.

Her parents shared a look, and then turned to Hermione. “She’s just a delightful girl.”

“That’s it?”

Her mom let out a small giggle. “She looked so nervous and surprised the entire night, it was so nice. Glad to know we aren’t old and dull, right?”

“I’m going to be bringing her around a lot, you know.”

They both nodded. “We look forward to it, dear.”

Hermione nodded, trying to keep the grin off her face. “Alright then. Good night. Happy Christmas.”

She embraced her parents, glaring at them when they made faces, and a couple minutes later, Hermione was in the car, Pansy staring at her intensely. 

“What’d they say?” Pansy demanded as soon as they left the driveway.

Hermione smiled smugly. “Loved you. Just like I said!”

Pansy exhaled loudly. “Thank Merlin. I was so nervous.”

“They found that endearing.”

“They said that?”

Hermione nodded, flicking on her blinker and pulling onto the main road.

“Hey,” Pansy murmured. Hermione slowed, stopping at an intersection, and looked over, and even after a year, her breath was stolen from her when she looked at Pansy. “I love you.”

Hermione leaned over, brushing her lips against Pansy’s.

“That’s it?” Pansy mumbled, snaking a hand around Hermione’s neck, pressing closer.

“Can you keep it in your pants for ten minutes? We’re holding up traffic.”

“No, Hermione Granger, because I just find it  _ so _ sexy when you drive that I can’t help but leap on you,” Pansy teased, lips curving up.

“But by holding up traffic, I’m not driving, which means that the thing that attracted you to me in the first place is not occuring anymore--”

Pansy pulled away, scowling. “Merlin, just drive.”

Hermione grinned.

*

Hermione and Pansy are friends now, which means they do friend things. They visit each other at work and go out for drinks and it’s all perfectly normal and there’s nothing fucking wrong with it, okay? Just because they don’t visit their other friends as much and spend more time with each other doesn’t mean anything different, it’s just been ten years and they’re trying to catch up, okay?

At least, that’s how Pansy rationalizes it.

That’s how Pansy rationalizes getting up two hours early just so she can watch the sunrise on their park bench with Hermione next to her, and cutting classes twenty minutes early so she can play piano for Hermione without the vulture-like stares from her students.

And it’s fun and innocent and Pansy pretends not to notice how Hermione stares at her when she thinks Pansy’s not looking. 

(The truth is, Pansy wants to stare at her too.)

It’s Pansy’s last class before Christmas (they’re taking a week off for the holidays) and Hermione’s stuck at work so Pansy has no interest in letting the kids go early, but they’re all out of acting exercises and Pansy has no interest in hearing them sing, so she does the only thing she can think of.

“My holiday gift to all of you-- you get to ask me  _ one _ question,  _ any _ question, I have to answer.”

The room is immediately filled with whispers and chatter and laughter, and hands immediately jet into the air.

“Mia,” Pansy calls, and a shorter girl who’s  _ really _ good at fake crying stands. 

“Can you really play ten different instruments?”

Pansy shakes her head. “I play piano and dabble in flute, but that’s it. Don’t spread it around.”

More laughter and chatter, and Pansy smiles slightly, knowing that this was probably a good idea.

“Tom,” she calls when she sees another hand.

“Are you a virgin?”

She scowls at the pimply-faced boy, whose face immediately reddens. “I’m 35, Tommy, what do you think?”

He sits, and his friends all laugh at his plight.

“Were you and Tony Mallecko ever an item?” Comes another voice.

“No, I’m gay.”

The room erupts in talk and gasps and laughter, and although Pansy’s sexuality has been the talk of several theatre magazines and blogs, it’s never been said so explicitly. 

For a second, Pansy's stomach lurches at the honesty, but then someone’s shouting, “Play a song on the piano!” And the worry is gone.

She stands. “Write all your questions on a piece of paper, stack them up, and put it at the foot of the stage. I’ll get through all of them when I’m done playing.”

She walks over to the piano and, with a flourish, sits, eliciting titters from the kids. And although she’s never been so good at recalling things from memory, she’s played this specific song so many times, so many nights, it’s impossible to forget.

She drifts her hands over the keys, touches her fingers to the cold ivory, and presses down, and the first notes ring into the air. She lets them hang there for a few moments, hearing soft inhales from her audience, and continues.

The beginning is slower, more basic, a few repeating notes. She reaches her left hand over to play the melody, hitting the bass line harder, and slows it down even more. 

It’s beautiful,  _ hauntingly beautiful,  _ she played it for Hermione last week, and at the end Hermione had tears in her eyes, though she denied it when Pansy tried teasing her about it. 

Pansy had reached for her hand, and the outsides of their thighs were touching, and it felt absolutely electric, and it was too reminiscent of a time Pansy desperately wanted to put behind her.

She hits the upper key, slams her hands down onto the piano, and, with a speed she hasn’t tried before, plays, and she knows that the song is utterly unrecognizable now, but it sounds so much better, in her opinion, and she hunches farther over the piano, hearing the music fill the room, the auditorium, and plays faster, hits the notes harder.

She reaches her left hand over, goes an octave up, and then back down, and it’s chaotic but it sounds  _ good _ , too good to be true.

She thinks of Hermione while she plays, and how she laughs and her smile when Pansy admitted she missed her. Hermione when she’s tired, and Hermione when she drinks, and she’s so caught up in her thoughts she doesn’t realize that she’s slowed down immensely, and the angry, frustrating chaos of a moment before has mellowed.

Pansy exhales, slowing just a mite more, letting one hand drop, playing the ending with just her left, and she slows it, slows it, until you could hear a pin drop in the room.

She plays the last note, a high C, softly, gently, and lets the sound, almost like a jewel drop, ring into the room.

It’s absolutely silent in the theatre.

And then it’s not.

The room erupts into cheers and yells and applause, and for just a moment, Pansy’s back on stage, in New York, and she just belted out  _ Don’t Rain On My Parade  _ for the very first time, and it’s all starting again.

And then she’s not.

She stands, smiling at the kids, laughing slightly at their red, ecstatic faces.

Her gaze lifts, she doesn’t know why, and her breath is gone when she sees Hermione, all the way in the back row, smiling at her, and she doesn’t know how but she  _ knows _ there are tears in her eyes.

Hermione waves.

Pansy can’t help the smile that’s growing on her face, growing into something wide and delighted and embarrassed.

Pansy waves back.

She drinks in the sight of Hermione, awkwardly perched in an old seat, biting her lip, gaze hooked on Pansy like she’s a lifeline. She takes it all in, feeling acutely like it'll be the last time.

Hermione’s fucking beautiful. With her scarf and gloves and Christmas coat and hat pulled on over her braids, she looks… gorgeous. Even from a distance, Pansy knows that her lips are probably reddened, nails picked at, eyes glittering in a way Pansy adores.

Her heart thuds.

Fuck.

A loud whistle snaps Pansy out of her trance. She realizes belatedly that it’s been too long, she’s been staring at Hermione for far too long to be considered appropriate, and she clears her throat, ducks her head, and spots a stack of papers perched on the edge on the stage.

Pansy sits, cross legged, and skims the couple questions.

“My goodness, you guys certainly are fans of sexual questions… okay, let’s just go down the list. Number one-- favorite song to sing. Easy. ‘Maybe This Time’ from Cabaret. Next question-- Have you ever had sex with a cast member? That’s an odd one, and I am judging whoever wrote that, but the answer, unfortunately, is yes. Yes, I have.”

The room explodes in laughter and yelling, and Pansy allows herself to smile.

Her chest burns as she answers all the questions, it  _ burns _ , but in a good way, kind of, because she knows Hermione is looking at her, and although she hates how much she loves it, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She loves it.

(She loves her.)

Fuck.

*

“Hermione, honestly, what the fuck are you thinking?”

Hermione sighs. “So this isn’t a friendly get together?”

“It still can be,” Harry says, giving her a pointed look. “After you answer the question.”

Ron nods along, blue eyes glued to her.

She knew something was up when Harry firecalled an hour ago, nervously talking about how the three of them haven’t ‘just sat down and talked for a while’.  _ Come on over to Ron’s. We’ll have a pint. _

“Where’s Draco?” She asks, desperate to pull attention away from herself.

“Working. A bachelorette party pulled up just as he was closing. Can’t let that amount of money go to waste,” Harry says, oblivious to Ron’s glare.

“Right you are, Harry. Is everything good, money-wise?”

“About the same--”

“Stop it!” Ron cut in. “We know what you’re doing. We’re not stupid.”

Harry blinks, then straightens. “Hermione. We’re concerned for you,” Harry starts, sounding like he’s reading off a script. 

“Is this because of Pansy?”

They both nod. 

“Okay, first of all, my friendships and relationships are  _ none _ of your business. Secondly, I’m offended that you would think I’m so  _ stupid _ to get involved with Pansy again--”

“But you  _ are _ getting involved with Pansy again, ‘Mione,” Harry interjects. 

“Not in that way!”

“But how long til it is in  _ that _ way, though?” Harry says sharply, and for a moment all Hermione sees Draco’s influence, plain as day, because if they had been having this discussion twenty years ago Harry would have just sat there and silently stewed, and now he was standing up for himself, refusing to be overtaken. In any other circumstance, Hermione would have been proud. 

“He’s right, Hermione. You have very few weaknesses, but Pansy Parkinson… well, she’s a doozy of a weakness for you,” Ron mutters, face red.

“ _ Ronald-- _ ”

“Hermione. You know it’s the truth.”

She clenches her jaw, not answering. 

“We’re worried about you,” Harry repeats, softer. 

“I know. And I’m… I’m sorry for yelling. But I want you to know that I am being smart about this. I remember better than anyone what happened… last time. I know.” Memories of yelling, plates breaking,  _ I fucking hate you,  _ doors slamming flash in her mind, making her stomach lurch.

She remembers. She remembers  _ get the fuck out  _ and  _ I hate you  _ and  _ you’ve stolen seven years of my life from me  _ and  _ I can’t remember why I ever loved you _ and  _ I wish I’d never met you  _ and  _ I never want to see you again.  _ She remembers.

They both nod, looking unsure.

Ron and Harry start chatting, a few beers are opened, and soon Hermione’s smiling, nodding, talking about work and ‘that goddamn paralegal’. It’s all friendly and normal, and Hermione clings to it, even when her mind is trying to drag her back to the past, ten years ago, when all she could hear was yelling and pain.

After about an hour or so, Ron stands. “I have to go pick Lavender up from her sister’s,” he says.

Harry stands too. “Draco will be home soon. I should start on dinner,” he adds, offering a hand to Hermione. She takes it, lifting herself up. 

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?” She says, pulling on her coat. “Christmas dinner at Ginny’s and Blaise’s?”

“Goodbye, ‘Mione,” Ron remarks, kissing her on the cheek. Harry echoes the sentiment, pulling her into a one-armed hug.

Harry Apparates out of the apartment, Hermione following a second later. 

She lands in her living room, wobbling slightly, wards adjusting around her, and is about to grab a glass and fill it to the brim with wine when her phone buzzes.

She picks it up from where she left it on the counter and sees one missed call and a voicemail, both from Pansy from about two minutes ago.

She hits play on the voicemail, lips twitching up when she hears Pansy’s voice.

_ Dearest Hermione, I tried to call but there was no answer, so I will leave this long and meandering voicemail. I will be leaving for New York in a couple hours-- but don’t worry your pretty little head! I will be back shortly, I have a round-trip Portkey. My dear friends, the de Bergs, are throwing a Christmas party for the Manhattan elite, and I am included on the guest list. Of course, it will be barf-worthy, but I’ll have a lot of stories to tell when I get back on the 27th. I told Blaise I won’t be making it to his dinner, but still send my regards. See you soon. Winky face.  _ There’s a pause.  _ Is this off? I don't think this is off. Fuck. Well, Hermione, I guess I’ll keep talking. So-- _

It cuts off abruptly.

Hermione grins to herself, heart beating so hard she can feel it in her toes.

Fucking Pansy Parkinson.

_ We’re worried about you. _

The smile slides off her face, replaced with a grimace. 

(The thing is, she never had to try and connect the Pansy she fell in love with to the Pansy who left her, because Pansy  _ left _ . But now, well, Pansy’s back, and Hermione has to try and connect two different people, the Pansy who cooks her dinner and plays the piano and leaves her long voicemails, and the Pansy who told her she would never amount to anything and left for America an hour later. Maybe Ron and Harry are right. How does she know that one Pansy won’t leave and the other will return? How does she know that, in the end, it  _ won’t _ be the same? That all the long voicemails will turn into bone chilling silence, and that the soft piano songs will turn into yells?)

She scoffs, mentally hitting herself. This was all ridiculous. Pansy’s leaving in March. They aren’t in a relationship. They’re just friends. And besides, it’s not like Hermione even wants to pursue a relationship with Pansy. She  _ doesn’t _ . 

“It’s ridiculous anyway,” Hermione mutters to herself, pouring herself some wine.

She hits play on the voicemail again.

*

_ fifteen years ago _

It’s dark out, so dark out, and they’re dancing. 

Loud, raucous dancing.

It’s just some Celestina Warbeck song, just an awful thing, and they have no furniture and they're already behind on rent but this flat is theirs, only theirs, and it took them forever to be able to get here and hands are on waists and hair is being flung into eyes and hips are bumping counters and they’re so fucking happy.

It’s nearing their two year anniversary, and both have something elaborate planned out, conflicting completely, but that’s a problem for later.

They’re dancing.

Pansy spins Hermione, dips her quickly, and Hermione can’t help her delighted yell.  _ I want to do this forever.  _

The song changes, something even worse, and they both laugh and hurry to change it,  _ race _ to change it, leaping over boxes and skidding around corners.

They’re twenty years old and hopelessly in love.

They change the song.

They’re dancing.

*

“ _ Pansy _ ! Oh my fucking  _ god _ ! You actually came!” 

Pansy’s pulled into a tight, sweaty hug by Camille de Berg, entrepreneur, heiress, actress, the most recent person to grace the cover of Vogue magazine. 

“Was I not invited?” Pansy responds when Camille lets her go.

“God, don’t be a fucking bitch. Louis is going to be so happy you’re here.” Camille pulls away, grasping her hand and yanking her into the penthouse. “You haven’t seen the new place yet, have you?”

Camille starts talking a mile a minute about how her Dad finally allowed her to buy a penthouse without requiring Louis to cosign, and she leapt on the opportunity, but Louis was still in a ‘cramped, two bedroom’ in Manhattan, while she was having ‘all the fun’ in Brooklyn. 

The penthouse is already packed full with all of New York’s most elite milling about, decked out in red and green.

Camille finally finishes her speech, turning to Pansy with a happy sigh. “What about you? Where’re you staying in London?”

“One- bedroom in the city. Nothing too fancy. I don’t have a famous Daddy to pay for extra apartments, after all.”

Camille laughs, not even taking offense, which means she’s already drunk as fuck. “God, I’ve fucking missed you. You left right before Thanksgiving, which I know means nothing to you Brits, but here in America it’s all about family, and Pansy, you  _ are _ my family.” She hiccups, brown top knot wobbling, and yanking Pansy half into her arms. “I know you like to call me your white-girl friend, but I mean it. You’re my family.”

Pansy sighs, ignoring the way her heart thuds, and returns the hug, taking care not to wrinkle her outfit. 

Camille pulls away, cheeks red, either because of the admission or the drunkenness. Pansy doesn’t care to find out.

“Okay. Did you bring any gifts?”

Pansy nods and reaches into her bag, pulling out two small boxes, wrapped in silver paper.

“Addressed to Camille and Louis de Berg, who else?”

Camille shrieks in delight and snatches one of the boxes from Pansy’s palm. “Let’s go find Louis-- then we can open them together!”

She disappears into the crowd, screaming her brother’s name, and Pansy sighs in exasperation, even though there’s a small smile on her face, and accepts a glass of champagne from a server.

She hangs her bag up on one of the golden coat hangers (with a magical lock on it, of course. Word’s been going around she’s gotten herself involved with a lawsuit and she doesn’t need these fucking vultures to be going through her stuff) and drops her phone into a locked box guarded by a bouncer, a requirement at these parties (no press, no video, no evidence).

As she makes her way through the crowd, she’s reminded as to why press is forbidden from these events. If pictures of famous celebrities and CEOs and humanitarians doing hard cocaine got out, well, the de Bergs would find themselves penniless and starving in a blink.

She watches as multiple actors from a  _ very _ popular TV show snort some coke then, after the typical cheering and whooping, start what looks like to be a pre-planned orgy.

“Merlin,” she mutters. She climbs the winding, gold-lined staircase to the second floor, where she immediately spots Louis.

Decked out in a fitted, bright red suit, muscles pressing at the fabric, he’s slouched against the wall, tongue stuck down an upcoming indie singer’s throat. 

Personally, Pansy doesn’t care for his music or his looks, but Louis has always been a sucker for skinny white boys who don’t wash their hair, so the attraction is understandable.

“Louis! Hello!” She calls, sipping at her champagne, approaching slowly.

The man moans audibly as Louis shifts, hiding their antics from her view.

“Hello, Louis de Berg! Your best friend of ten years is here!”

They part, breathing heavily.  _ Fucking finally _ , Pansy thinks to herself.

“Do you know her?” The singer asks, scowling, cheeks red. 

Louis turns, glaring at Pansy. “Unfortunately. Can you wait a second?”

The singer, obviously displeased at being cast aside, presses a bold palm to Louis’ crotch. “Stay with me,” he whines, nuzzling into Louis’ neck. 

Pansy almost gags.

“Fucking Christ! Louis, get your boy-toy out of here! You’re in public!” Pansy reprimands loudly, smirking.

Louis pushes the man away. “I’ll find you later,” he says in that low, growly voice that earned him People’s Sexiest Man Alive two years in a row.

“Do you enjoy smelling greasy hair while you fuck?” Pansy asks, cocking her head. “Because, honestly, I prefer clean--”

“Pansy, thank you for making it,” he interrupts, tossing his head back and fixing his perfectly coiffed, golden hair. 

“I refuse to hug you until you have  _ that _ situation under control,” she informs him when he reaches to hug her, gesturing to his crotch.

He sneers at her, backing away. “That was a massive cock-block, by the way. Thank you for that.”

“I wanted to give you my gift!” She reveals the box, pressing it into his hand. “Where’s your sister? She wanted to open gifts all together.”

“Who knows. She’s really nervous about tonight. Dad’s gonna swing by in a bit, make sure the de Berg parties are living up to their name. She’s been drunk for hours.”

His point is proved when they hear a delighted shriek from downstairs, unmistakably Camille.

And, a few moments later, up the stairs comes Camille, riding on the back of an Oscar winner.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” Louis swears, swiping Pansy’s drink from her and taking a generous gulp. 

Pansy cackles, falling back into Louis’ arms, so incredibly delighted with the scene in front of her. 

“Camille!” He says sharply, a small frown on his face. “What the  _ fuck _ ?”

She slides off the Oscar winner, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, and stumbles towards Pansy and Louis, giggling.

“You found him, Pans!”

Pansy catches Camille by her waist, giggling when she slumps into her arms. “Do you still have your gift, Cam?”

Camille straightens and nods. “Louis, you got yours?”

Louis sighs but nods, scraping his nails audibly over the silver ribbon, an annoying habit of his. “On three?”

“One, two, three!”

The wrapping falls away easily, a charm Pansy’s particularly fond of, revealing two rectangular picture frames.

Louis and Camille both go still. Understandably, because Pansy spent  _ weeks _ digging up their gifts, poring over old New York newspapers and theatre blogs for a picture she hadn't seen since it had first been taken, ten years ago.

Pansy’s first week in New York, she didn’t have anywhere to stay, no work. She showed up for an audition for chorus members for the Funny Girl revival, heartbroken and broke, and while initially she had used a bit of Legilimency to get them to offer her a place in their shared penthouse, it blossomed into a legitimate friendship.

She was casted as Fanny Brice (another nice little bit of Legilimency, she has no regrets), Camille as her understudy and chorus, and Louis in a supporting role. To celebrate the news, they got ridiculously drunk and went out, admittedly a mistake. Someone from the press took a picture and it was published everywhere. Daddy de Berg buried it so they could keep their roles, but Pansy’s memory of the picture and the events surrounding it was that it was the first time she had felt truly happy in months. So she looked for it.

In the picture, they’re in front of the Whitney. Louis and Camille are in the middle of the frame, doing a perfect Dirty Dancing-esque lift, with Louis’ hands on Camille’s waist, holding her in the air as she, in perfect form, poses just as Jennifer Grey had in the movie. Pansy’s on Louis’ back, barely holding on, a half full bottle of tequila in her hand. They all look deliriously happy, with their wide, crooked grins and red faces. 

Pansy distinctly remembers what happened next-- Louis had dropped Camille, who fell face-first onto Pansy, who had fallen off of Louis’ back. Louis, knocked off balance, had then fallen himself, and they all laid there and laughed while the press took a thousand pictures.

“How did you find this?” Louis asks softly, eyebrows creased. “Dad destroyed all copies.”

“We have rabid fans,” Pansy answers airily, waving a dismissive hand. “It was almost too easy.”

Camille sniffles, obviously holding back a sob, and falls into Pansy’s arms, hugging her so tightly Pansy can barely breathe. “I love you, even though you’re a bitch who has given me the best present ever. You totally upstaged my gift to you.”

Pansy smiles and throws her arms around Camille’s neck, breathing in her $2500 perfume. “Love you too.”

Louis joins the hug, resting his chiseled jaw on top of Pansy’s head. “I think that was the best night of my life,” he admits, voice hoarse.

“Really? Not two years back when Daddy said he was proud of you?” Pansy teases, grinning when he squeezes her tighter.

“You  _ are _ a bitch, Christ.”

Pansy laughs softly, shoving her face into Louis’ gigantic chest. “I’ve missed you guys, over these past two months. I really have.” 

“We’ve missed you too,” Camille murmurs. “Now,” she says, pulling away, “who wants to get  _ drunk _ ?”

Pansy grins.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

*

The annual Weasley-Zabini Christmas Eve dinner is festive, loud, fun, packed full of close friends and family. It’s Hermione’s favorite time of the year, and usually by now she’s comfortably buzzed and filled with warm laughter.

Except, this year she’s not. Why, you ask? 

Because Hermione’s only been here for thirty fucking minutes and already five different fucking people have come up to her and asked her where Pansy is.

“What if Blaise’s mammy shows up?” George jokes, elbowing her. “Who’s gonna defend us?”

Hermione forces a smile. “I don’t know, George. But Pansy isn’t here. She’s back in New York for Christmas.”

George nods. “She got family over there? Friends? Who’s she bailing on us for?”

“No idea. Ask her when she gets back,” Hermione mutters, pushing past him.

She’s pissed about two things surrounding this. One, why does everyone care  _ so much  _ that Pansy isn’t here? She hasn’t been here for  _ ten fucking years _ . Just because she showed up to one party and cursed out an old woman doesn’t mean she’s RSVPing ‘yes’ to every other fucking event. Two, why is everyone asking  _ her _ ? She’s not Pansy’s girlfriend. She’s not intimately aware of Pansy’s comings and goings. Christ.

“Yikes. You look like you need a drink,” Blaise, appearing beside her, says quietly, shoving a glass of apple cider in her hand.

“You aren’t wrong.” She gulps down the drink, cringing at the strong taste. “Is there  _ rum  _ in this?”

“Yes, well, someone drank all of Draco’s gin, so this is all he had on hand to bring.”

“Oh fuck off,” she mutters, biting down on a smile when she remembers that night with Pansy.

“Wow, Hermione. ‘Fuck off’? Someone really  _ is _ in a bad mood.” Blaise raises his eyebrows. “Is this because a certain lady isn’t with us tonight?”

“I don’t appreciate your insinuation.”

“Well, either way, Pansy’s having a better time than any of us here,” Blaise says snidely, sipping his drink, a flash of his former self bubbling through.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks, hating how interested she sounds. Hates how interested she is.

“You really are quite ignorant of pop culture, aren’t you?” Blaise remarks. At Hermione’s glare, he amends, “The de Bergs are famous for their holiday parties. Drugs, alcohol, lavish gifts, sex… everyone who’s anyone is there. Pansy’s probably high as a kite right now, getting ready for the second orgy of the night, with a 10,000 dollar bracelet on her wrist.”

“She’s really big over there, huh? To be so close with the de Bergs?”

She sounds desperate for information, even to her own ears, but she can’t stop herself. 

Blaise snorts. “Pansy and the de Bergs were friends even before she got big. Look it up on your Muggle phone. No idea how she pulled it off, conniving little fiend she is.”

Hermione blinks. “I forgot how weird you get when you’re drunk on rum.”

“Well, if someone hadn’t poached all the gin--” He starts, scowling.

Hermione flicks her wand up, casting a muting charm. He immediately stops, looking shocked and offended all at once. 

“I’m sorry, Blaise, I really am, but--”

“Go find your wife and tell her you were getting too chatty. Oh wait! You can’t!”

Hermione turns, relaxing slightly when she sees Draco next to her, grinning at Blaise. “You always forget that Hermione is the real threat, Blaisey-poo,” he teases, tapping Blaise on the nose. 

He starts talking to Blaise again, obviously drunk off his ass, but Hermione tunes him out, walking off, already tucking the experience away to tell Pansy about it later. 

Forcefully muting someone isn’t something she normally would do, especially to Blaise, but her nerves are frayed and her stomach is lurching, especially after the news he shared.

She checks her watch. It’s eighty-thirty in London, so it’s only three thirty in New York. Surely the festivities wouldn’t have started yet. Is Pansy  _ aware _ of the drug situation?

Fucking Christ. Of course she is. 

Hermione pulls out her phone, flicking open Safari and typing  _ de Berg Christmas party. _

Her nerves are not eased at all when the first thing to come up is an article titled-  _ No Press Allowed, but Phones Are.  _ She clicks on it, skimming the bulk of the paragraphs, something about a young Swedish starlet who got drunk and live-streamed about an hour of the Christmas party before the hosts, Camille and Louis de Berg, found out. The live-stream revealed acclaimed stars and celebrities engaging in orgies, hard drugs, drinking, destruction of property, and more awful, admittedly intriguing things. The starlet still hadn’t been invited back, two years later, and while the de Bergs were investigated, the footage was eventually proclaimed ‘doctored’ and the entire thing was dropped.

Hermione clicks on a two minute excerpt of the livestream, the only part of the footage legally allowed to still be played on public sites, and sucks in a breath when she immediately sees Pansy. 

The attention is on a tennis player at the top of the frame, but Pansy’s still visible in the back, holding a flute of champagne, in a scandalously short dress, even for Pansy, dancing with a man the article labeled as Louis de Berg. They smile at each other, laugh, and split, Louis collapsing into the lap of someone Hermione doesn’t recognize and Pansy slipping into the very edge of the shot, where it’s obvious she’s talking to someone. She laughs, flips her hair over her shoulder, and leans in. Hermione inhales sharply as Pansy and this mystery girl start grinding on each other, grinning and drinking and kissing sloppily.

Just as the girl turns, revealing her face, the video cuts out, and Hermione almost screams out of frustration.

_ When’s your party?  _ She texts out quickly to Pansy, palms starting to sweat.

_ Not until ten.  _ Comes the response a minute later.

_ Blaise tells me these parties are known for their… risky behavior. _

_ I guess you could say that. _

_ Do I have to tell you about the dangers of drugs? _

_ Ha. You’re so funny. _

_ I try. _

_ Blaise over-exaggerates. _

_ Really? How many orgies are penciled in for tonight? _

_ Three. If you grab a Portkey in the next couple hours you’ll be able to join me ;) _

_ I worry for you sometimes. _

_ Don’t. Camille & Louis take care of me. They always have. And, besides, I’m pretty self sufficient all by myself. _

_ I meant I worry about the whole ‘let’s invite my ex to my wild orgy’ thing but let’s go with your version. _

_ Funny. I’m serious about coming though. You’ll have to give up your phone and your self respect, but you can meet all my New York friends. _

_ It’s probably best I don’t go. I’ll be too worried about accidentally taking cocaine. I won’t be able to fully enjoy myself. _

_ Think about it. Quick note, there is a dress code- fancy dress, only red and green. _

_ Original. _

_ I’ll tell Camille you said that. _

_ Tell her that if you’re not fully taken care of I’ll come to New York myself and deal with you goddamn heathens. _

_ My goodness. Is it wrong that I’m a little turned on? _

_ Yes. But I should get going. Harry’s looking at me weird. _

_ Take care. I’ll be thinking of you during my wild orgies. _

_ … _

_ That came out wrong. _

Hermione snorts and closes her phone, slipping it back into her pocket.

Fucking Pansy.

“Who you talking to?” 

She turns her gaze to Ginny, who has appeared beside her, and is sipping her hot chocolate with a smirk on her face.

“No one.”

“That smile on your face makes me think differently.”

“No one.”

Ginny grins, bumping Hermione’s hip with her own. “New girlfriend?”

Although every rational being in Hermione’s mind is screaming  _ no no no no no no no no idiot no no no,  _ she simply shrugs and says, “Hopefully.”

Ginny laughs and brings her into a tight hug. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

“Yeah,” Hermione manages, mouth suddenly tasting like chalk. 

Ginny laughs and moves away, but Hermione doesn’t register it.

She’s thinking of  _ hopefully. _

_ Hopefully _ sounds like idiocy, like another mistake, like something she can’t imagine going through again. It sounds like the stupidest thing she’s ever said and like a gate being opened.

It sounds like a truth she’d never let herself admit.

She downs the rest of her drink, sending a burning strip of liquid down her throat, suddenly very desperate to stop thinking of Pansy. 

“Dinner!” Molly calls, and Hermione’s the first one to sit down, pouring herself another.

“Hell, Hermione, leave some for the rest of us,” George teases, grinning.

She doesn’t respond.

*

Pansy’s probably the drunkest she’s ever been. 

It fills her up, lifts her above what she thought was possible.

And there are people around her, pressed against her, and the music is loud and intoxicating and she  _ loves _ it,  _ fuck _ she loves it, and Louis is picking her up and putting her down and Camille is there, kissing her messily, and Camille tastes like tequila and bad decisions and she can’t stop.

The crowd swallows her, takes her, and all she feels is the beat of the music and warm bodies against her.

She downs another shot.

*

Hermione wakes up at 9:30 in the morning, the latest she’s slept in years. Her head hurts like a bitch, but that’s understandable, she did drink a little too much last night. 

Even though the rest of dinner was nice, calm, and happy, and Hermione received her Weasley jumper with the large H, plus a begrudging bottle of wine from Draco and Harry, she had continued drinking and drinking and drinking, even though no matter how many drinks she forced down her throat she still had that gnawing feeling in her chest.

It still hasn’t gone away.

She reaches for her phone, desperate to distract herself, and swipes to her messages, wondering if Lavender would respond to a text, just this once.

Her finger is hovering over the call button (Lavender never responds to texts) when the newbie lawyer at her firm messages her.

She clicks on it, eyebrows furrowing.

_ Perv has dropped case against P. Parkinson. Says ‘Christmas Spirit’ embodied him. I’m heading in on Tues to officially end things. _

Hermione bolts upright in bed, a ragged gasp bursting out of her. 

_ Dropped _ .

Dropped dropped dropped dropped dropped dropped dropped.

“Oh, thank fucking god,” she whispers to herself, slumping back into her sheets. 

_ Fucking excellent,  _ she types out, sending it without a second thought. 

A second later she’s dialing Pansy’s number, practically vibrating with excitement.

Pansy will be so relieved. This was the best outcome, and it’s over before Pansy has to go back, and she doesn’t have to pay a fucking thing.

Hermione will be humble. Well, after all the bragging.

“Fucking excellent,” she repeats to herself.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and a bit belatedly Hermione realizes that it’s only 4:30 over there, and Pansy’s probably asleep. Or still up, drinking and engaging in wild, public sex.

Hermione starts to put the phone down, wondering how long it’ll take for Pansy to be responsive, but on the very last ring, Pansy picks up.

“ _ Hermione _ !” 

Hermione winces at the shriek and puts the phone down next to her, a safe distance away from her ear.

“Hey, Pansy--”

“I’m so  _ fucking _ glad you called, Merlin above.”

Her words are slurred, thick, and there’s pounding music audible in the background.

“How drunk are you right now?” Hermione asks, smiling slightly as Pansy hiccups and giggles. 

“ _ No _ ! How dare you!”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“Shu-- Hermione. Shut  _ up _ . I’m perfectly sober, I’ll have you know.”

“Listen, it doesn’t matter. Should I call you back or do you think you can hold on for two more minutes? I have big news.”

Pansy laughs, loud and malicious, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “Is the news that you finally learned how to  _ relax _ ?”

“Wh-- what?”

“You’re so fucking  _ rigid _ , Hermione. You should have come out with me tonight! Or-- or this morning.” She laughs. “I don’t know the bloody time.”

Hermione scowls, headache growing exponentially worse. “Um, Pansy--”

“Merlin, shut up for one second! Okay! Hermione, there’s something I have to tell you. But you have to shut up for one bloody minute so I can say it.”

“No-- Pansy, I have  _ news-- _ ”

“Shut up! I’ve got-- I have to tell you how I--  _ hic _ \--  _ feel _ about you.”

“ _ Pansy _ \-- Pansy, don’t do that--”

“Hermione, Merlin! Shut up!”

Hermione stares in mute shock at the phone as Pansy starts to talk, loud and meandering and…  _ fuck _ .

Maybe she’s just thinking too much about it. Pansy could just say how much she appreciates their friendship. Hermione grasps onto that, stomach settling.

But then Pansy sputters out, “... and I don’t know, I mean, it has been seven bloody years, but we could give it another go,” and Hermione wants to hang up, to scream  _ no don’t say it please don’t say it,  _ she wants to interrupt and remind Pansy that she’s leaving soon, that any relationship they had ten years ago ended in a giant ball of fire. That anything she’s trying to say isn’t what needs to be said.

Pansy’s voice drops to a whisper, and she says, “I’m in love--  _ hic _ \-- hold on, fuck, I’ve fucked it up. Hold on one second.” She laughs giddily. “I’m really nervous. And drunk. But it’s perfect that you called me, because I was just going to call you and let you know that I’m in  _ love _ with you, Hermione Jean Granger.”

Hermione’s entire body tenses.

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ .

“Pansy-- what are you doing?” Comes a muffled voice from the other line. “Oh fucking-- are you on the phone? Do you  _ want _ to be banned from these parties? Jesus.”

“Louis-- give me the fucking phone back!”

There’s a scuffle, and a lot of noise on the other line, then a cold, clear voice starts speaking. “Who is this?”

“H-- Hermione Granger. A friend of Pansy’s,” She forces out, stomach lurching.

“Herm-- I know that name. Weeping Jesus, you fucking called your  _ ex _ , Pans?”

“ _ Louis _ ! Give me the bloody phone  _ back-- _ ”

“God, do you realize how bad you just  _ fucked _ yourself--”

Hermione hangs up.

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ .

*

_ fourteen years ago _

Hermione plays music all the time.

Soft music constantly echoes through their small flat, filling up the empty spaces and drifting through walls.

Hermione charms the music to follow her, a tiny radio floating around her head while she cleans or calls her parents.

Quiet, strumming guitar or delicate piano (she’s fond of one song with a banjo in it that makes Pansy’s ears bleed), all day, the music follows Hermione as she hums along.

Pansy doesn’t sing. 

(Not yet.)

But when she gets home after a morning of teaching young little shits to dance and an afternoon of waitressing, she can’t help but lower her guards, singing quietly along. 

Hermione’s studying in the kitchen, music playing on, and Pansy collapses on the couch and listens.

And she starts to sing.

It’s a beginning.

*

Pansy wakes up at 1 in the afternoon with the worst hangover she’s ever had.

She cracks an eye open, hissing at the open curtains and the light pouring through them. There’s a heaviness on her chest, a body pressed against hers.

She groans.

Merlin’s balls, what happened last night? She can’t even fucking remember any of it.

Well, that’s not true. She remembers opening gifts with Camille and Louis, snatches of drinking, of grinding up on random girls, of grabbing her phone from the box and being surprised when it was ringing.

Pansy freezes.

She goes through it again, slower this time.

Opening gifts… drinking… dancing… kissing… more drinking… sneaking behind the bouncer’s back and grabbing her phone, intending to text Hermione but instead getting distracted because Hermione was already calling her. 

She had talked to Hermione last night. 

A choked gasp bursts out of her as more memories flood back.

_ You’re so fucking rigid  _ and _ shut up  _ and  _ you should have come out with me  _ and the worst one, oh fucking Merlin. _ I’m in love with you.  _ It all rings through her mind, and it’s her voice echoing in her head and Hermione’s confused little  _ what?  _ answering. 

Maybe it was just a dream. 

Yeah. A dream.

Pansy sits up slowly, mouth dry and heart pounding so hard she thinks she might throw up.

She blinks, looking around, recognizing Camille’s bedroom. She’s on the very edge of the lavish, four poster bed, in a silk bathrobe, only her underwear underneath, Camille passed out next to her.

Pansy slides out of the bed at a glacial pace, nausea rolling through her, and delicately makes her way over to Camille’s private bathroom, bladder and stomach screaming at her in tandem.

She pushes open the giant door, and stops short, head swimming, when she sees two men passed out in the tub, fully naked, wrapped around each other.

She clenches her jaw and turns, slamming the door shut on her way out, with a sick little wish that it wakes them out of their blessed slumber.

Pansy edges into the hallway, searching for another bathroom, and makes it about two feet before someone comes around the corner and smacks into her.

She reels back, barely keeping her vomit down, and sags against the wall.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she chokes out, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Pansy?”

Pansy lets out a relieved sigh. “Louis, thank fucking god.”

She inhales, exhales, and straightens, opening her eyes to see Louis, only in his underwear, hair mussed, blinking blearily at her.

“Where are you coming from?” He asks, raising a hand to scrub at his cheek.

“Your sister’s room.”

He makes a face. “I know you and Camille have sexual tension, and whether or not you act on it is none of my business, but telling me about it... Christ. That’s a step too far, Pans.”

“I’m, like, 99% sure we didn’t fuck.”

“Not 100?”

“Listen, it’s too early for this. Where’re you coming from?”

He grins at her, blushing slightly. “Gordeau’s room.”

“ _ Gavin _ Gordeau?” Pansy asks, and a picture of the tanned, uber-muscly action movie star flashes through her mind.

Louis shrugs, a giddy smile on his face. “ _ Yes _ .”

“Oh Christ, Louis, finally. You’ve had a crush on him for  _ forever _ ,” Pansy manages, forcing a smile. She clears her throat, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Hey… um, I had a dream last night--”

“A dream that you called your ex, professed your undying love, then puked all over me? Yeah. I had that dream too.”

Pansy stares up at Louis in absolute horror.

And it all comes rushing back.

Hermione had hung up on her, and she had said  _ i’m in love with you,  _ and, even worse, she had used Hermione’s full bloody name, fuck,  _ Hermione Jean Granger,  _ and Hermione hadn’t answered, she had  _ hung up. _

Distant, far away feelings of missing her, of just wanting to say it, of never wanting to leave her again echo in her chest.

Pansy had said…  _ that _ .

And Hermione had hung up.

Pansy vomits.

*

_ I’m in love with you  _ plays on a sick loop in her head, screaming and pounding and desperate to get out.

Hermione ignores it. She does laundry. She hasn’t done laundry in a bit, and there’s a lot to get through. It’s the perfect task to distract herself with.

She goes through her flat, grabbing towels flung over the sink and forgotten socks and a jacket hung up on a hook, and does not think about the laugh Pansy let out after she said  _ I’m in love with you _ . She stuffs the clothes into the hamper, dragging behind her, and continues on. She detours towards the couch, grabbing a sweater that’s tossed over the arm like a throw blanket and turns back to the washer/dryer unit she pays extra to have in her flat, and starts throwing everything in.

She scans around the unit (sometimes she throws clothes over here and forgets about them) and her diligence is rewarded when she sees the sleeve of something poking out from behind the machines.

Her fingers grip the fabric, she snaps it up, and is about to toss it in, but then something glittery catches her eye, and she doesn’t own anything glittery.

She lingers, on a shirt she hasn’t seen in years, a shirt that’s hers, but isn’t at the same time, and her hands clench around the stupid little cotton t-shirt, because even though signs aren’t real it sure as fuck seems like someone’s trying to tell her something. 

Back, so long ago, Pansy had convinced Hermione to travel to LA with her for a month, just to break up their routine. Hermione acquiesced, took the time off work, and boarded a plane ( _ Muggle way! _ Pansy had declared). The trip was ridiculous and expensive and it was so fucking hot out, but they got drunk every night and ran through the streets and snuck onto movie sets and impuslively drove to Las Vegas to gamble. In the airport on the way home Pansy bought her a novelty tourist t-shirt, exorbitantly expensive and cheesy as all hell. 

Hermione rarely wore it, so Pansy did instead. All the time. After… everything, Hermione hadn’t even thought about it. But here it was.

Hermione turned over the fabric in her fingers, exhaling softly when she saw a dried, dark red stain splashed over the front, covering the glittery  _ L.A. GIRL  _ that had caught Pansy’s eye in the first place. 

This must have been from the other day, a couple days before Christmas. Pansy showed up to her flat, unannounced, because some drunk had just spilt red wine all over her when she was singing at the Panther, and she needed emergency laundry help.

_ Magic’s not getting it out!  _ She yelled.  _ Christ, then, use my washer.  _ Hermione replied, rolling her eyes.

But then Hermione’s stupid Muggle reality TV show came on, and Pansy forgot all about her laundry emergency just to make fun of Hermione and her ‘brain cell killing program’.

Pansy changed into a sweatshirt Hermione gave her and left soon after, being dramatic as usual and all that.

Hermione had forgotten about it. They both had.

Hermione pulls it closer, examining the stain, cringing when the stench of red wine hits her and her still weak stomach. She turns it over, smiling slightly, and catches a whiff of Pansy. She stills and, impulsively, buries her nose in the shirt, inhaling, and underneath the red wine there’s a smell so powerful that it nearly knocks her off her feet.

(Because Pansy never did proper laundry, she always hit her clothes with a couple cleaning spells then a round in the dryer, and the entire thing produced a specific smell, one that, mixed with Pansy’s flowery perfume and rubbed off makeup, was so imprinted in Hermione’s mind that she couldn’t forget it even if she was hit with a thousand _ Obliviate _ s)

She inhales again, getting yanked back through years and years of waking up to that smell and going to sleep with that smell and hours of lazy kissing with that smell, and that one time when they went to a Muggle concert together and got high off of a joint a girl nearby gave them but even with all the smoke and bodies, all Hermione smelled was that smell. 

She clenches her jaw and just keeps inhaling.

Whenever she would pull Pansy to her or fall onto the couch with her or fold her clothes. When they were fighting and they’d get so close to each other that all Hermione registered was anger and that  _ smell _ .

She should let go. Continue with her day.

She can’t. Fuck, she can’t.

_ I’m in love with you  _ and this stupid shirt and Hermione’s falling back against the wall, breathing it in, the perfume and clean linen and thick smell of foundation all mixing together in some torturous, infernal scent.

She hated this smell, once upon a time. It drove her mad, when everything reminded her of Pansy. That anger is still there, Hermione thinks, but underneath it is a running loop of soft, giggling laughter, of hands wrapped around waists, drifting to music, deep, searching kisses, soft gasps against skin and hands quietly winding through hair.

She inhales again, tears springing to her eyes. Fuck. 

She can’t.

*

_ fourteen years ago _

“I can’t believe Draco and Harry are getting married already,” Hermione murmured into Pansy’s shoulder.

“I did such a good job organizing it,” Pansy replied, smirking at Hermione’s huff.

But she did, even Hermione could admit that.

It was the beginning of June, slightly warm but not hot, and Pansy had booked an expansive courtyard in rural Scotland. She, with Lavender’s help, had decked it out with magically-induced blooming flowers, cherry and peach trees, fragrant wisteria, and magically concocted notes, from the guests to the grooms, that fluttered around like butterflies made out of parchment and loopy script.

Pansy and Hermione stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as the courtyard filled up with all of Draco and Harry’s closest family and friends.

(A  _ lot _ of Weasley’s.)

“Do you ever think of doing anything like this?” Hermione asked quietly, arms looped around Pansy’s waist.

“Getting married?”

Hermione nodded, chewing on her lip.

“I thought you were against marriage,” Pansy murmured, twisting to look at her. 

Hermione raised her gaze, locking eyes with Pansy. “Not when it’s with you.”

Hermione didn’t wait for a response, knew then that the way Pansy’s eyes softened was enough of an answer, that that was all she’d be able to manage right now. 

Hermione turned away again, resting her head on Pansy’s shoulder and threading their fingers together.

“I love you,” Pansy whispered after a while, voice hoarse. Hermione smiled to herself and pressed a kiss against Pansy’s cheek. 

“Okay. You have to go do your maid of honor duties with Blaise, I have to go check on the rings.”

(Pansy and Blaise shared Best Man/ Maid of Honor, just because in the months leading up to the wedding they had fought so fiercely about it there was worry of bloodshed at the wedding.)

Hermione was performing minister duties, and walked off to prepare her speech, stomach fluttering.

She looked around, taking in the chirping birds and flowing color scheme.

She started to take notes for her own potential wedding one day.

(It never happened, obviously. There was never enough time, never enough money. Hermione started her law firm, Pansy started singing full time. Soon, fun talk of rings and dresses turned to bitter reminders of their empty bank accounts and strained relationship. They stopped calling each other ‘fiancee’, returned to ‘girlfriend’. The idea faded.  _ It’ll happen one day,  _ they assured themselves. But it didn’t.)

*

“ _ Jesus fucking Christ _ , Pansy!” Louis yells, stirring the quiet flat. 

She heaves again, tears springing to her eyes.

He kneels next to her, sweeping her hair back, and starts muttering about idiocy and drunkenness.

Pansy’s body convulses one last time, and she fucking hates throwing up, because it’s just so bloody  _ extra _ . Her nose always starts bleeding and her ears pop and right now she’s crying, though that’s for a different reason, if she’s being honest with herself. She coughs, throat scraped raw, and falls into Louis’ arms.

He picks her up easily and strides towards Camille’s room, muttering never ceasing. He kicks the door open, and it bangs against the wall behind it. Camille bolts upward at the sound, crying out. 

“What-- what the  _ fuck _ ?”

Louis puts Pansy down, a protective hand wrapped around her waist, and leads her to the bathroom.

She tries to speak, to tell him about the exposed dicks in the bathroom, but Merlin, maybe something is wrong with her, because she cannot force breath into her lungs, no matter how hard she tries.

He barges into the bathroom, scaring the ever-living shit out of the two men, and while normally that’d be the funniest fucking thing Pansy has ever seen, she can’t bloody  _ breathe _ , and she barely makes it to the sink before she pukes again.

“Holy-- what the fuck’s wrong with her!”

Louis is yelling at them, demanding they move, but he’s also smoothing Pansy’s bangs off her head as she dry heaves again, and that’s what she’s focusing on as her eyeliner runs into her eyes and her legs almost give out.

What had fucking inspired her to say that? To interrupt Hermione, to call her frigid, tell her she needs to relax-- which is an insecurity of hers! And then to confess her love-- holy mother of god.

“Pans-- hey, can you hear me?”

She nods and pulls away from the sink, melting back into Louis. 

“I’ve really fucked up now, Lou,” she whispers.

She decides-- she’ll allow one sob, then shut it down and work on fixing this. 

She lets one sob roll through her, staining her sleeves with messy tears, and is about to take a deep breath, ready to get ahold of herself, but Camille appears beside them, wrapping a blanket around Pansy’s shoulders, and Pansy couldn’t stop the tears even if it was all she wanted in the world.

*

Pansy is still.

Very, very still.

She’s moved out of the bathroom, now she’s on the floor of Camille’s bedroom, just… being still.

Camille and Louis are next to her, holding her hands, trying ever so often to get her to speak, but she doesn’t.

She’s still.

“Pansy,” Camille whispers. “Can Louis and I give  _ you _ your gifts now?”

Still.

“Louis. Go grab them.”

Did she mean what she said? 

_ I’m in love with you. _

It just… burst out of her. Did she even mean it? Or was it just drunken loneliness? 

Pansy sighs and leans back against the wall, breaking her stillness. Of course she meant it.

To be completely honest, she doesn’t think she’s ever stopped loving Hermione. Maybe it was mixed with hate for a while. But the love never went away.

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ .

“Pansy,” Camille says softly when Louis settles back next to them. “Louis and I forgot to give you our gifts last night. Can we give them to you now?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

Her voice is hoarse, cracked and raspy, grating over the calm air. 

But she speaks anyway.

“I never told you about Hermione,” she starts, seeing sharp looks from Camille and Louis in her periphery. “I mean, I told you the basics. We were together, then we weren’t.” She accepts the small box from Louis, starts untying the ribbon wrapping around it. “I was in love with her. My childhood was very…  _ traumatic _ . And she helped me, she lifted me up, all that sentimental shite.”

She opens the box, smiling slightly when she sees a golden necklace nestled within. She hooks a nail on the thin, delicate chain and lifts it up, tears springing to her eyes when she sees a pansy flower engraved into the golden pendant.

“Louis…”

“Custom made by the best jeweler in the country,” he informs her, eyes crinkling up at the sight.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.”

It is.

She fastens it around her neck, the cold metal grounding her.

“Why don’t you tell us more about Hermione?” Camille says gently, pushing a large box towards Pansy. 

Pansy doesn’t look at Camille, throat clogged with emotion.

“We were together for seven years.” She forces breath into her lungs, mouth dry as she says, “I thought I was going to be with her for the rest of my life. But, you know. We grew up. Her work started getting busy, and an agent started approaching me and said that if I ever was going to be successful, I needed to move to New York… suddenly we were never seeing each other.” She waves a hand. “Tale as old as time. But it didn’t end well, not at all. So I moved here, decided I was never going to speak to her again.”

“But then you moved back.”

She nods. “And she was always around, and helping me with the lawsuit… we decided to become friends again.”

Louis whistles softly. “A slippery slope.”

Pansy smiles. “Yeah.”

She clears her throat, wiping away beginnings of tears, and turns her attention to Camille’s gift.

“Wow. That’s big,” she comments, gaze darting to Camille.

“That’s what Louis was saying to Gavin last night,” Camille murmurs, grinning when Louis elbows her.

Pansy tears open the box, an apprehensive smile growing on her lips as packing peanuts fall to the floor. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s what Gavin was saying to Louis last night,” Camille cuts in.

“Camille!”

“I’m sorry! It’s right there!”

A small laugh bubbles out of Pansy, and she finally clears away the rest of the packing peanuts and sees…

“A painting?”

Camille snorts. “It’s not just a painting. It’s a Camille Pissarro.”

Pansy’s jaw drops. “You got me a  _ Camille Pissarro _ ?”

Pansy flips the painting around, gasping when she sees the painting fully.

“Is this Pont Boieldieu in Rouen? How the fuck did you get this?” Pansy asks, while Camille grins smugly.

“I paid a shit ton to buy it from a gallery in Canada. Like. A shit ton.”

“I just got you a stupid picture and you got me an  _ original _ Camille Pissarro!” Pansy yelps, standing quickly. “Where are the packing peanuts? I need to make sure this doesn’t get damaged--”

“Christ, Pansy-- calm the fuck down!” Camille yells, jumping up too.

“Shut up! Both of you!” Louis snaps, rushing to the door. “Who is it?”

“Did someone knock?” Pansy whispers to Camille, who just shrugs. 

Louis, still in his underwear, opens the door, and Pansy has to bite back a grin when she sees Gavin Gordeau standing there, immaculate in last night’s suit.

“Hey,” Louis says, sounding like such a lovesick prick that Pansy can’t help but snort. Camille hits her, but is grinning so wide Pansy suspects she feels the same.

“You rushed out before I woke up,” Gavin says, leaning in and trailing his fingers over Louis’ abs.

Louis giggles, a high pitched, stupid sound, and Pasy has to hide her snort in Camille’s shoulder.

“What the fuck?” Pansy whispers to Camille as Gavin and Louis start murmuring to each other.

“This is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Camille whispers back.

The comment breaks the dam, and Pansy tucks the painting against her leg and  _ laughs,  _ good and truly.

Camille tries to shush her, but is soon laughing too, falling and stumbling against Pansy as Louis shoots them increasingly frantic glares.

“Should we continue this outside?” Louis says firmly, pushing Gavin into the hallway and slamming the door behind him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Two lovesick puppies drooling over each other,” Pansy says, with her familiar edge. She clears her throat, casting another glance at the painting. “Um… thank you for this. This is truly beautiful.”

“Of course, Pans. You’re family.” 

Pansy nods, grasping Camille’s hand. 

“Now, you’re here for two more days, so I’m thinking the three of us just sit around and drink and eat and watch Christmas movies and forget about Hermione, yeah?”

Pansy nods, taking a deep breath. “Yeah.”

(She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget about Hermione.)

*

Pansy’s coming back today.

The 27th of December, two days after she… did the thing.

Hermione’s trying not to think about it. She’s failing miserably, mostly because all she can think about is  _ it _ , but she’s trying, so that counts for something.

In the two days since  _ it _ , Hermione has visited her parents for Christmas Day, spent a few hours with Draco and Harry, considered impulsively getting a tattoo, talked herself out of impulsively getting a tattoo, stuffed the  _ L.A. GIRL _ shirt away in a drawer she rarely opens, and sat at home and pointedly not thought about  _ it _ .

Her firm is closed for the holidays, they go back to work on January 2nd, which is truly awful, because she has nothing to do.

Leo Folley hasn’t gotten a court date yet, Pansy’s case has been dropped--

Fuck, she’s thinking about it.

Hermione stands, deciding to go make herself another cup of tea. It’s only 2 in the afternoon, and she’s already had 6 cups, but who’s stopping her, really?

She just… can’t think about it.

Even though the smart thing to do would be to actually consider Pansy’s words, and think about whether or not she herself feels the same, if she should confront it, or if she should just ignore it, Hermione won’t let herself. It’s too dangerous.

Because, if Hermione’s being perfectly honest with herself, she doesn’t trust herself to be alone with Pansy, because if Pansy says  _ that _ again, who knows what’ll happen. 

Maybe Hermione will run to her, throw her arms around her neck, and their lips will meet--

_ No _ . Nothing of that sort will happen.

Because it’s Pansy.

Vindictive, rude, untrusting Pansy. She cheated on her, for fuck’s sake. She decided to move to New York without telling her. 

_ She came back _ , a treacherous part of her brain whispers.

_ And she’s going to leave again, _ she screams back.

Hermione sits. She doesn’t need any more tea.

She inhales, exhales, tries to ground herself with the type of breathing her therapist told her about.

She’s three deep breaths in when there’s a knock on the door.

*

_ This is such a bad idea _ , Pansy thinks.

She knocks anyway.

*

“Hey,” Hermione says.

It’s all she’s able to say.

Pansy is staring at her.

“I forgot to give you my Christmas gift,” Pansy says, gaze trained so firmly on her Hermione can  _ feel _ it. It’s like the flash of press’s cameras, like the yells of reporters crowding around her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione manages.

_ I’m in love with you. _

Pansy clears her throat slightly and pulls a small box from her bag. “I just… wanted to give this to you.”

Hermione blinks, and opens the door fully. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Come in.”

*

The gift is wholly inappropriate now.

It’s a ring. Open for misinterpretation. Pansy’s prepared for yelling.

She lingers near the now-closed door.

“I… uh, well. Right after Ginny and Blaise’s wedding, I bought this for you. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I’ve been holding onto it for so long… it’s for you. So you should have it.”

Hermione opens the box (wrapping falling away easily) and her eyes widen almost comically when she sees the ring.

“You… you bought this for me?”

Pansy clears her throat again.

“I did.”

*

It’s a beautiful ring. Silver band with a gigantic fucking diamond perched on top.

She half expects Pansy to get on one knee and propose to her right now. After all, this fucking ring is… so  _ much _ .

“Why are you giving this to me?” She says sharply, snapping the ring box shut. “Tell me.”

Pany visibly clenches her jaw. “Because I’ve been holding onto it for thirteen bloody years. I didn’t want to have it anymore.”

“You could have sold it. Given it away. Threw it into the bloody Thames.”

“It’s yours, though, Hermione. I bought it for  _ you _ .”

“Fucking Christ, Pansy! Why are you  _ here _ ? Is this some attempt to win me back?”

“Wh--  _ no _ ! This is me trying to back off!”

  
“Backing off is coming to someone’s flat and giving them a fucking _diamond ring_?”

Pansy steps away, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“No. This is a fucking apology, okay?” She snaps, voice low. “You called me, and I was drunk and stupid and said some things I shouldn’t have, okay? So this is me giving you something I should have given you a long fucking time ago.”

Hermione’s so fucking stupid, becuse she should just take the ring, thank Pansy, and  _ never _ ,  _ ever _ speak to her again, because there’s less pain that way, there’s less messiness, but instead she’s staring into those fucking eyes and saying, “You didn’t mean it?”

*

Pansy’s so fucking tired. She dropped all her shit at her flat and then rushed over here like some sort of lovesick buffoon and gave Hermione a fucking  _ ring _ . She expected a fight, and now she was getting one.

A small part of her hoped that there would be no yelling, only sappy confessions and long-lost kisses, but that small part of her is idiotic.

That small part of her is screaming at her to just say,  _ yes, I meant it!  _ And run away. That small part wants so desperately to go back ten years and fix things, even though it’s fucking impossible. And that small part of her wants to fucking kiss Hermione even though it would be fucking destructive for all involved.

“Did you mean it, Pansy? Tell me!” Hermione demands, looking so fucking distraught Pansy’s heart clenches. 

“Yes! Yes, fine! I bloody meant it!” Pansy yells in response.

“You… you’re in  _ love _ with me? Fucking Christ, Pansy--”

“I know! I know it’s fucking stupid, okay!”

“ _ Yeah _ ! Yeah it fucking is! You-- you’re  _ leaving _ , in two months!”

“Don’t you think I bloody know that? I’m not a fucking idiot!”

“Really? You aren’t? Because you just marched over here and told me you’re in  _ love _ with me!” 

“It’s the truth!” Pansy yells. It is. Fucking-- it  _ is _ . “Hermione, I  _ love _ you. I’ve never  _ stopped _ loving you. So, do with that what you fucking will, okay? Because I know it’s stupid, and I know it didn’t work out last time, and I know I’m leaving in two months, but I  _ love _ you.”

Hermione stares at her, jaw dropped and eyes wide.

Her eyes are stuck on Pansy, glued on Pansy, a dark, ever-stretching river of black. Her gaze feels like the anxious, shimmering heat of a spotlight and like the breathless, suspenseful moment before the curtains close and the show ends and something else begins.

“I love you too,” she whispers, like it’s some kind of unspeakable betrayal. 

  
“You--?”

“I love you too,” she says again, looking more and more terrified with each breath. “Oh  _ fuck-- _ I’m in love with you.  _ Fuck _ .” She turns, taking gasping, ragged breaths. 

“Hermione--”

  
Pansy’s cut off by Hermione turning back around, and Pansy feels the spotlight again. 

Their eyes meet.

Hermione looks scared and angry and is staring at Pansy like she’s the only thing in the world.

“I can’t go through our breakup again. It nearly destroyed me,” Hermione whispers, eyes shining with tears.

“It nearly destroyed me too,” Pansy responds, feeling each truth cleave itself from her chest.

Their lips meet.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')  
> Ch. 4 will be up soon.


	4. i'm losing you (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was early October of eighth year when Draco and Harry got together. It was loud and dramatic, like everything else they did with each other.  
> It was late October when Blaise started sneaking out to the Quidditch Pitch at odd hours of the day, and it was November when someone spotted him kissing Ginny Weasley in the hall.  
> And it was right before Thanksgiving when Ron and Lavender, hand in hand, walked into the eighth year common room and announced they were going to give it another try.  
> And in between, it was Dean and Seamus, and Padma and Theo, and Millicent and Anthony, and all the rest, pairing up quickly and sweetly, until it felt like Pansy and Hermione were the only ones left in the entire school who weren’t in a relationship.  
> From there, it was all so inevitable.
> 
> Ten years after Hogwarts and ten years after the most devastating breakup either of them have ever been through, Pansy and Hermione start to make their way back together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy :)

_ twelve years ago _

It was gasps in ears and nails digging into skin and it was so fucking wrong, the way soft, blonde hair rubbed against her cheek instead of black curls.

Her name was Lola, Pansy thought. 

_ Lola _ was pressing openmouthed kisses against Pansy’s neck and Pansy was pinning  _ Lola _ against the wall of the bathroom and  _ Lola’s _ hand was in her hair and up her--

They were fighting about money. 

Hermione’s schooling cost a shit ton of money, plus rent, plus food. Pansy was working two jobs, Hermione worked part-time at a bookstore, and still they just barely skated by.

Pansy bought a really expensive dress.

She thought maybe if she looked more professional onstage at the Panther she was more likely to attract bigger tips, job offers, agent interest.

(That’s what she told Hermione. In reality, she saw the dress in the window and was, for a moment, so nostalgic for her childhood, when she could afford anything and everything, when she didn’t have to obsessively add up the price of groceries and consider donating blood just for a few bucks, that she bought the fucking dress, just because.)

In order to pay rent, Hermione had to pick up an extra shift at the store and wasn’t able to study for a test, and she got a C. 

_ Still passing _ , Pansy pointed out.

_ Not a fucking A _ , Hermione had screamed back. 

Hermione wanted her to sell the dress, get some money back. Pansy didn’t want to. Not even because she liked it that much, just because of principle. 

(The dress didn’t even fit her that well.)

Hermione left, said she was going to Ron and Lavender’s flat. Pansy, not knowing what to do, called her boss, said she was coming in to work tonight, even though she was supposed to have the day off.

(She put on the dress.)

She put on the fucking dress and went to work and sang and got so drunk that when a blonde girl followed her into the bathroom and pressed her against a stall, she simply… let it happen.

Because maybe she was nostalgic for more than just a dress. Maybe she was nostalgic for ages sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, when she would fall into bathroom stalls with complete strangers and run along beaches with girls she would never see again. She’s twenty-three years old, and has been with the same person for the last five years and maybe it’s boring and unfulfilling, and she needs something else. 

The girl had a boyfriend. He was nice. Tipped well. His name was Steven, Pansy remembered. Scottish guy who, when really drunk, sang along with her. 

Another casualty of whatever the fuck Pansy was doing. 

She knew what Hermione would say when she found out.

_ You were bored? _

She would have to admit the truth, that she wasn’t actually bored, she's just hopelessly fucked in the head and lives for drama. Because Hermione wasn’t boring, she was safe and secure, she was who Pansy loved.

_ If you love me so much, how could you do this to me? _

Pansy didn’t have an answer to that.

There were two worlds, two truths, one in which she has sex with a stranger in a bathroom and another in which her loving, committed girlfriend waits at home with dinner.

How does she justify one, keep one, without completely disregarding the other?

Maybe this world was actually a true reflection of who she was, and all these years of goodness and morality were just stupid pretending, lies and idiocy, the greatest con she’s ever pulled off. Lies, lies,  _ lies _ .

The air in the bathroom clung to her body, feeling like ice against her skin, cold, suffocating, dragging her down.

There was someone moving against her, someone who had forcibly revealed Pansy to be who she truly was, disgusting, unworthy, liar.

Pansy inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled like she could forget what she was doing, who she truly was, inhaled and exhaled like if she simply filled her lungs with enough air everything would disappear, she would wake, it’s a dream!

Panting inhales and exhales, gasping inhales and exhales, ragged inhales and exhales.

*

“I’ve missed you,” Hermione whispers.

They’re in Hermione's bed, sheets wrapped around their bare bodies, foreheads tilted against each other, black eyes on brown.

“I’ve missed you too,” Pansy responds, cheeks pinking.

Hermione smiles slightly, poking Pansy’s chin. “You’ve gotten better, I have to admit.”

“Yes, well, ten years in New York, you pick up a few things.”

Hermione grins, brushing her lips over Pansy’s nose.

The calm, content moment is gone too soon, and as Hermione stares at Pansy, the tousled hair and the reddened lips, the thick eyebrows and black-lined eyes, awful, overwhelming emotion swells in her chest.

“This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she whispers, voice cracking.

Pansy’s eyes start shining. “I know.”

Pansy pulls Hermione closer, so close Hermione can feel Pansy’s heartbeat and smell the flowery, peachy shampoo in her hair and that stupid, intoxicating smell of her clothes. It makes a sob crack out of her, and she tucks her face in Pansy’s neck, crying harder when Pansy’s grip tightens around her.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Pansy says again, voice wavering.

“This definitely is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Pansy lets out a choked laugh. “Love you too.”

*

They don’t tell anyone.

Not yet.

It’s too new, too fragile.

During the day, they go about their lives and do their usual things. At night, they sit on their couches and recount the last ten years apart in detail.

With the TV flickering in the background, Pansy tells Hermione about meeting Camille and Louis.

( _ They’re fucking idiots, and I love them.) _

She talks about how she stayed in their guest bedroom for months until she could finally afford to rent out a bed in this cramped apartment with four other women, and she stayed there for a year and a half before finally being able to afford a studio apartment, which she hasn’t left since.

And she talks about all the shows she’s been in, and how sweaty she was at the Tony’s (all four years), and what it’s like being recognized on the street, and she understands why Hermione used to get so upset when people would randomly approach her at restaurants and on the bus to ask for autographs and pictures.

And with music playing, Hermione tells Pansy about rising through the world of law, of being approached by Sydney and being asked to run for Minister of Magic, of watching every post she’s liked and every person she talks to on the street, just so it doesn’t hurt her image. 

( _ Isn’t that exhausting?  _ A shrug.  _ I can help so many as Minister of Magic. It doesn’t matter that I have to watch my behavior, as long as one day, I can do something good.  _ A scoff.  _ You’ve already helped defeat a Dark Lord. Is that not enough?  _ Another shrug.  _ Not for me. _ )

Hermione talks about the thrill of winning a case, and how devastated she is when she loses. She talks about visiting Azkaban to talk with her clients, and how when the news first broke that she’d be challenging the MLE on their hasty conviction of Leo Folley, she received death threats.

And she talks about watching their friends go through the years, with their promotions and moving and marriages and kids, and how left behind she feels sometimes.

Mainly, they talk about things they wished the other was there for, and how much they missed them when they weren’t.

They talk briefly about Pansy’s drunken confession, mostly because Hermione finally remembers that she hasn’t actually told Pansy about her case yet (and also wants to make fun of her for drunk dialing like a teenager).

They fall asleep in each other’s arms every night.

*

_ twelve years ago _

Hermione threw Pansy out. No hesitation, no arguing, nothing.

_ Get out. _

It was almost cinematic, how it happened.

It had been a month of alternating between hotels and Draco and Harry’s couch. 

  
They didn’t know exactly what happened, just that Pansy did something bad, _extraordinarily_ bad, and that she deserved this.

She deserved this.

After a month of no communication with Hermione, Pansy stopped going to work. It was too difficult, acting like nothing was wrong, receiving her meager pay, flinching every time she saw blonde hair.

She knew Hermione, and she knew that this no communication was probably a good thing, because it meant she was considering taking her back. Hermione was logical, factual, she needed time to consider things fully.

Then again, knowing that didn’t help anything. Didn’t stop the constant, overwhelming guilt, didn’t alleviate the nausea that hounded her every day.

Pansy felt like shit, all the time. Draco and Harry tried to get her to go places, out to lunch, to the grocer, anywhere really, but she was so deeply terrified of seeing Hermione that she refused to leave their flat.

She thought at some point they’d talk to Hermione and find out, then probably throw her out too, so she waited for that day, resigned to its inevitability. 

She sunk into her sabotaging, angry, toxic self, not like an embrace but more like a suffocating hold, and waited.

She waited.

*

“With a mighty  _ growl-- _ ”

“You wrote this?” Hermione asks, barely stifling a snort.

“Yes, of course,” Pansy replies, flipping the page of the manuscript she was holding. “Now, with a mighty growl, his cock shrunk to the size of a pea--”

“Where did you happen to get your inspiration for this?” Hermione interjects again, turning so she was facing Pansy.

“Well, one night I got quite drunk, and Camille was talking about how she’s always wanted to be a writer, so I said to her, ‘then fucking write something’, but while she was doing that I got bored and started writing my own thing. And while I was doing that Louis came in and started talking about his cock and how it’s probably smaller than Gavin Gordeau’s, who he had a massive crush on at the time-- who he’s actually dating now, that lucky fuck.”

Hermione grins, leaning in and reading over Pansy’s shoulder. “Did you ever show it to Camille?”

“Merlin, no. Poor thing does not have the same abilities I do. I didn’t want to make her jealous.”

“God forbid,” Hermione murmurs, turning her head and brushing her lips over Pansy’s. “Do you want to…?” 

“If we have sex right now, we won’t be able to finish my masterpiece,” Pansy says, almost-whining, waving the thick document in Hermione’s face.

“Well, it  _ is _ up to you,” Hermione responds, braids brushing Pansy’s cheek as she leans in, a breath away.

“Temptress,” Pansy mutters.

“So no?”

“Oh, shut it.”

Pansy whirls around, grabbing Hermione’s waist and pulling her closer, much to Hermione’s surprise, and she lets out a delighted yelp before Pansy’s kissing her, pressing her up against the counter.

It’s searing and hungry, and though familiar, makes fireworks explode in Hermione’s stomach.

Hermione winds her fingers into Pansy’s hair, resting them at the base of her neck, and swipes her tongue across Pansy’s lower lip, eliciting a gasp from Pansy, and presses forward, smiling when Pansy moans again.

Pansy leans forwards, bending Hermione over the counter, and Hermione giggles against her lips, the cliche of the situation not lost on her.

“What’s so funny?”

“No, it’s just… how many can say they’ve fucked the darling of Broadway?” Hermione answers, grinning when Pansy starts laughing. 

“Quite a few, I’m afraid. I get around.”

A loud cackle slips out of Hermione, and she pulls Pansy to her again, laughing into her mouth.

“I have to thank these people, they’ve made you  _ much _ better at sex--”

“I was never bad!”

“Yeah, but now you’re better.”

Pansy rolls her eyes but doesn’t reply, just simply leans down and captures Hermione’s lips in a rough kiss, one that quickly has Hermione forgetting about how ridiculous it is that Pansy’s got her bent over a counter and instead just appreciative.

Pansy lets one hand drop, slides it in between--

“I want to tell our friends,” Hermione whispers against her lips.

Pansy stills, and although Hermione figured that would happen, the statement’s akin to a cold shower, she still sighs, the small part of her that hoped for a better reaction shrinking away.

“I beg your pardon?” Pansy squeaks out, and Hermione almost laughs at Pansy’s obvious discomfort.

“They should know,” Hermione says, trying not to get lecture-y as Pansy steps away.

“Do we have the same friends? Because  _ my _ friends are judgy and passive aggressive and  _ I _ don’t tell them fucking anything--”

“We told them once before.”

“Yeah, _seventeen_ _years_ ago. A lot’s happened since then.”

“I think they’ll understand,” Hermione insists, sliding her hands back around Pansy’s waist, pulling her in. “Please? It’ll make me feel better, okay? Ginny’s constantly asking me where I am all the time-- and Harry knows something’s up, I can see it in his eyes-- and it’ll be so much easier just telling them right now. Imagine if they find out in another way.”

Pansy groans, no doubt thinking of the theatrics.

“Please?”

Pansy is flat-out grimacing, but, after a long pause, nods, acquiescing.

Hermione laughs slightly, pecking her on the cheek. “My hero.” She pulls away and grabs her phone, planning to type out a text asking Draco and Harry if they’re available next Thursday.

“No sex?” Pansy half-whines, resting her head on Hermione’s shoulder.

“No. Finish reading your manuscript or something.”

Pansy rolls her eyes but reaches across the counter and grabs the thick sheaf of paper. “Where were we? Ah, yes.  _ She gazed in wonderment at the shriveled dick, shocked that simply being better than him had so handily emasculated him.” _

Hermione snorts. “Brilliant stuff.”

*

“You brought wine?” Pansy asks Hermione, frowning slightly.

“Yes, Pansy. It’s what adults do, you see.”

Pansy huffs and turns away, cheeks pink.

Hermione wants to ask her if she’s nervous, but clamps down on the words, certain she already knows the answer. Besides, asking Pansy that will just make her defensive, and no one needs that right now.

“Should we knock?” Pansy snaps, wringing her hands, and Hermione barely manages not to roll her eyes.

She lifts a fist and raps against the door three times, knuckles stinging slightly from the shield of magic over the door. 

(Draco’s and Harry’s wards were by far the most complicated she’d ever had to construct, maybe even more than the ones she did during the war. Harry’s fans were almost impossible to ward off.)

The door opens, and the next few minutes are a flurry of motion and greetings and hugs until Hermione is sitting on their expensive, leather couch, a glass of wine in hand, Pansy at her side and Draco and Harry across from her.

Pansy and Harry’s small talk dies out, and in the quiet Hermione finds panic crawling up her throat, desperate and unrelenting.

“It’s so nice being together,” Hermione forces out, voice high.

Pansy glances at her, eyebrows furrowed, and Hermione clears her throat, refusing to let nerves get the better of her.

Draco arches an eyebrow. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“We have news,” Pansy says smoothly, sipping her wine.

“Pregnant?” Harry chimes in, like he always does.

“Still so funny,” Pansy mutters, making a face at Harry.

“What’s the news?” Draco asks, eyes narrowed.

Hermione sets down her wine glass, crossing her legs. Impulsively, she threads her fingers through Pansy, heat rushing to her face as Harry’s eyes widen.

“Pansy and I… um, we’ve decided to  _ rekindle _ our relationship.”

Heavy, expectant silence follows.

“You aren’t serious,” Draco says after a moment, voice flat.

“We are.”

Harry clears his throat, choking out, “Like… you know...?”

“Yes, Harry. We’re fucking,” Pansy says, voice firm, eyes sparkling.

Harry chokes on his wine, unceremoniously spitting it all over the table, hand coming up to grip Draco’s tattooed bicep. Hermione swats Pansy’s arm, who just hides her smile behind her wine glass.

“Excellent spit take, Potter,” Pansy teases, and looks like she’s about to continue when Draco suddenly straightens.

“You’re together.  _ Again _ ,” he says in his characteristic drawl, firm eyes roving over them both. He turns to Harry and, in a fierce whisper, says, “I thought you said you talked to Hermione!”

“I did! She said I had nothing to worry about!” Harry replies, face red.

“And you  _ believed _ her?”

“We can hear you fuckers, you know,” Pansy snaps, eyes narrowed in a dangerous way.

Draco huffs, and before Hermione can blink he’s reaching for his wand, and with a snap of his wrist there’s a firm wall of air around her.

“What the hell is this?” She asks sharply, pressing a hand against the firm barrier.

“We need to talk, Hermione,” Draco responds.

She turns to Pansy, watching as if from a distance as she soundlessly berates Harry, who keeps looking to Draco as if he’s scared Pansy will rip out his throat.

“They can see us?” She asks, turning back to Draco. It looked like he had constructed a silencing charm around just the two of them, for whatever reason.

He nods.

“Draco _ \-- _ ”

“I need to talk to you. Alone,” he interjects, steel grey gaze boring into hers.

“Why can’t you talk to Pansy too?” She challenges, scowling at him.

“Same reason I had Harry and Ron talk to  _ you _ . Because you’re the  _ smart _ one. You always have been. And this--” He laughs hollowly. “This isn’t fucking smart, Hermione.”

“Why is it any of your business, Draco?” Hermione interjects.

“You think I didn’t know? I’ve known for months! Even before the two of you started making eyes at each other, I saw the longing glances, the fucking--”

“Why is it any of your fucking business, Draco?” Hermione repeats, voice rising.

“ _ Why-- _ because she’s leaving in a month and a half, Hermione! Merlin-- have you not realized that yet?”

“Of course I’ve fucking  _ realized _ it, Draco--”

“Then why, pray tell, are you engaging in this behavior?”

“It’s not of your fucking business! Stop--”

“Stop what?  _ Worrying _ about you two?”

“Yes! We’re adults!”

“You couldn’t get out of bed for  _ weeks _ , Hermione,” he snaps, voice low. “And-- and Pansy didn’t come home for  _ years _ . Forgive me if I’m worried that history will repeat itself.”

She stops short, grasping desperately for a response.

“I don’t want to see you two hurt again,” he says, face contorted in anguish. “You’re  _ going _ to get hurt--”

“Thank you for your concern, but once again I have to remind you that our situation is none of your fucking business, and your opinion won’t change shit,” Hermione cuts in coldly, gulping down some wine.

Draco’s nostrils flare. “You know I’m right.”

Hermione’s gaze snaps to Draco’s. “You think I don’t fucking know that? I’m not a bloody idiot.”

His mouth opens, like he’s going to say that, yes, she’s actually quite a huge idiot, but then shuts, wisely, in Hermione’s opinion.

“This is a mistake I have to make, Draco,” she says in a low voice, still engaged in an intense stare, Draco’s grey eyes sharp in the light.

“I hate that you do.”

“Take away the fucking charm,” she snaps, waving her hand.

His wrist flicks again, and suddenly Pansy’s shrill voice is cutting through the air.

“... tell him to take down the  _ fucking _ charm right the  _ fuck _ now, Harry! I don’t care if you’re the Savior of the bloody World, I  _ will _ chop off your dick right here and  _ right now- _ -”

“Pansy,” Hermione interjects softly, laying a hand on Pansy’s arm.

Pansy rapidly shifts, wheeling around to face Hermione. “What did he say-- was he a prick? I’ll kill him, you know I will--”

“Merlin, Pansy,” Draco mutters, which results in him receiving a firm hit to the side of the head. He scowls, yelping, “Are you a bloody  _ child? _ ”

“You’re a bloody fucking child! A  _ silencing charm _ ? What are you, a horny teenager masturbating in his dorm room?”

Hermione doesn’t listen to Draco’s response, certain that it’ll offend Pansy and Pansy will fire back with something inappropriate, and it’s all happened before and will happen again. Like clockwork, Lavender is fond of saying.

“This is going so well,” Hermione mutters, sliding her gaze to Harry.

“Have you told Ron yet?” He asks softly, barely audible over Draco and Pansy arguing.

She shakes her head. “Figured I’d give him a call later. He and Lav are going through a lot.”

Harry nods, eyes warm and wide, and the knot in Hermione’s stomach eases slightly.

“You’re not angry?” She asks, gaze darting to Pansy and Draco, standing now, red faced and yelling.

He snorts. “Why would I be angry? You’re happy, Hermione. I could never be angry about that.”

“That’s not Draco’s perspective.”

Harry shrugs, sipping his wine. “Whatever he said… he’s probably not wrong, you know.”

Hermione sighs, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Hey.”

She looks up to where Harry’s peering at her over his glasses. “Don’t worry about that. You two… it’s right. It always has been.”

She smiles gratefully at him.

“I think they’re finally done,” he whispers, turning back to Pansy and Draco.

Hermione grins, watching as their argument, as usual, devolves into muttered curse words and barely held back tears.

It means they had reached a conclusion, some sort of forgiveness, and that’s enough for now.

“Don’t tell Blaise,” Pansy mutters. “I want to tell him myself.”

Draco sits with a flourish. “No promises.”

“I swear to Merlin, Draco, I will  _ murder _ you--”

Hermione rolls her eyes.

Maybe it’ll be fine.

*

_ twelve years ago _

Winds buffeted Hermione as she stood, still and alone.

They’re strong winds, made her umbrella turn inside out and her hat fly off, but they’re warm, unusual for England, so she wasn’t cold.

It howled around her, kicking up chairs and knocking over Easter decorations set out by shop owners, but she didn’t sway, didn’t clutch at her coat. She simply stood.

She was at the park bench. Not sitting, standing. Waiting.

“Hi.”

Hermione did not turn, even though she desperately wanted to. 

It was one word, yet it held hundreds of meanings, practically screamed deep, twisting, heart-wrenching unsaid things.

_ Hi. _

Hermione sat, an open invitation to sit as well, a small way of saying  _ hi  _ back.

Pansy inhaled, exhaled, audible even with the wind, and sat as well.

Hermione couldn’t look at her. She wanted to,  _ fuck _ did she want to, but she didn’t. 

(If she had looked at her, she would have seen pale skin and dark, haunted eyes, unwashed hair and torn lips and oily skin.)

Hermione took a deep breath. In. Out. Then she said it.

“I want you to come home.”

It hung in the air, echoing and reverberating and swirling around.  _ I want you to come home. Even after what you did. Come home.  _ Hermione had to clench her jaw so she wouldn’t cry, especially when Pansy let out some kind of sick, choked little sob.

Hermione rolled her shoulders, feeling something click, before continuing.

“Harry rang me a couple days ago. He was concerned. Said you haven’t been going to work. You haven’t been seeing anyone, haven’t gotten off the couch in weeks.” Hermione inhales shakily. “He says you’re about to be fired.”

“Why do you care?” Pansy snapped, and it was vulnerable and pathetic and made Hermione want to scream.

Hermione didn’t scream, instead simply squared her jaw. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“Hermione--”

“You’re going to go back to work. You’re going to help Harry and Draco out around their flat, because they’ve been letting you stay with them for the month you’ve been gone. Once you prove to me that you’re truly sorry, that it’ll never happen again, that you’re making an effort to change… then you can come back home.”

“You know it’ll never happen again.”

Hermione stood. “No. I don’t.”

(Pansy moves back in two months later.)

*

“Merlin, Hermione, I love you, but that music is nauseating.”

“Why do you hate it so much? It’s just some banjo!”

“The piano is, like, a thousand times prettier. The banjo is like some drunk fuck trying to play something half-way decent while also being beaten to death.”

“Christ, that’s a description.” 

“I’ve had ten years to think about it.”

Hermione smiles, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Pansy’s cheek. “I’m not turning it off,” she whispers against her cheek, giggling when Pansy pulls away abruptly, scowling.

“I can’t say I expected a different response.” She stands, folding up a magazine she was reading and throwing it on the table. She starts moving around the apartment, putting her hair up and throwing things into her purse.

“Where’re you going?” Hermione calls, an amused smile on her face.

“The banjo drove me away.”

“So funny.”

“I have a class in five. Figure I shouldn’t be late.”

“Send the kids my love.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“So sweet.”

Pansy rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything else, slinging her purse over her shoulder and Apparating away a moment later.

Hermione sighs slightly, turning back to her book, a poetic, short thing about grief and crows.

She sinks into it, faintly wondering about the connections between it and  Didion's  _ The Year of Magical Thinking.  _ Of course, this was more poem based, while Didion’s focused more on the memoir aspect of it.

“Hermione.”

Her head snaps up, a yelp tearing out of her as she barely manages not to throw her book at the shimmery Patronus who had appeared in front of her.

An eagle owl, by the looks of it, perched on the opposite chair, blinking its huge, brown eyes at her. 

She squints. “Pa--?”

“Fucking Blaise is here, that motherfucker, and he’s crashing my class, and Draco fucking told him-- so I’m going to kill him and be home late--”

There’s a pause, some muffled talking, and then Pansy’s voice comes through again. “I  _ hate _ you, Blaise!”

The owl flickers, then fully blinks out. 

Hermione sighs.

Fucking Draco.

She puts down her book, reaching across the table to grab her phone.

She dials a number, inhaling and exhaling, and smiles when she hears Lavender’s cheerful  _ hullo! _

“Hi, Lav. Is Ron nearby? No-- no, I just have news. For both of you. Yeah. Okay. What’s it about? Oh, nothing.” She closes her eyes. “Just me and Pansy.”

*

“Draco told me.”

Pansy takes a long drag from the cigarette loosely hanging in her fingers. “Of course he did, the fucking prat.”

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Blaise says, raising his eyebrows at her.

She scowls at him and sits, perched on the curb in front of the theater. “It’s your fault. I only smoke when I’m stressed. And I’m stressed because you’ve shown up here, chirping at me all throughout my class-- by the way, you have to pay me for that, I’m not free-- and now, delaying my dinner by forcing me to talk about  _ feelings _ .” She inhales, exhales smoke. “Oh, by the way, tell Draco I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Draco’s  _ worried _ about you.”

“Just because he’s worried doesn’t make it okay to tell the entire bloody world about something that isn’t his business.”

“Maybe that’s true.” Blaise sighs heavily and sits down next to her. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Soon.”

“Soon?”

“Yeah.  _ Soon _ . Before Draco jumped the gun--”

“Draco’s  _ worried-- _ ”

“We already went over this!”

“I’m worried about you too, you know.”

Pansy pauses, long and heavy, taking multiple drags on her cigarette while she thinks.

“It’s different this time,” she says after a while, voice hoarse.

Blaise turns his head to look at her, blocking the streetlight at the end of the road, making him look all halo-ish and angelic. “Will it end differently?”

“No. I’m still going back, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“What’ll happen then? Are you going to do long distance?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve been together for, like, two weeks, Blaise.”

“You’ve been together for seven years.”

Pansy clenches her jaw and inhales more smoke than she can take, barely managing not to hack all over Blaise and look like an idiot.

“It’s not important--”

“You could try to at least think about doing something that’s  _ good _ for you--”

“Because you know what’s good for me?”

“Yes, I fucking do.”

“So you do want us to be together? Or you don’t?”

“What are you  _ doing _ with her, Pans?”

“Jesus, Blaise, why are you asking? We’re over when I go back to New York, anyway.”

“So more pain?”

Pansy snaps her gaze to him. “It’s always going to be ‘more pain’, Blaise! Merlin. Don’t you understand life  _ at all _ ? Or are you too caught up with your beautiful wife and unborn baby to remember that there will  _ always _ be more bloody pain? There’s no stopping it! Sometimes, that’s just how it fucking goes. Hermione and I…” She turns away. “It’s none of your fucking business,” she says after a while, tipping her head back.

“You can be happy, you know.”

“I  _ am _ happy,” she says in a drawl, not even bothering to conceal the lie.

“You’re smoking. You’re not happy.”

“I’m smoking because of  _ you-- _ ”

“There doesn’t have to be pain, Pansy,” Blaise insists, a bit pleadingly, like he’s begging her to reconsider her philosophical view on life.

“When I’m with her… there isn’t,” Pansy mutters, exhaling smoke.

“That month you spent on Harry and Draco’s couch says different.”

“That was twelve years ago,” she snaps. At Blaise’s sharp look, she adds quietly, “We’ve both changed.”

“But you’re saying it’s still going to end.”

“Maybe happy endings are  _ overrated _ , Blaise.” She stands, dropping her cigarette and grinding it into the pavement with her shoe. “Maybe it’s just about grabbing whatever morsel of happiness you can find and holding onto it until it’s time to let go.”

Blaise doesn’t stand, looking up at her from where he’s sitting on the curb.

“I hate that you can’t be happy,” he says, voice low. 

“Do you want us to be together or not? Just let me know your fucking opinion so I can go home. You’ve obviously waited a while to share it.”

Blaise’s eyes bore into hers, firm and unyielding. “Please be smart.  _ Please _ .”

A hollow laugh rips out of Pansy, loud and catching the attention of a few passersby.

“I want you to be  _ happy _ , Pans. That’s all I want,” Blaise says, and his voice is pleading and uncomfortable and makes her want to cry.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Blaise.”

She turns and strides away, heels clicking on the pavement, barely making it ten feet before there’s a hand around her arm, yanking her to a stop.

She can feel Blaise’s gaze burning into her neck.

“I’m going to miss you so much when you’re gone,” he says, voice cracking.

She sighs, ducking her head, hair falling around her like a curtain.

“Don’t be a dick, Blaise,” she replies, voice hoarse.

He laughs, and it’s not happy or sad, just defeated. “I’m happy for you, I guess,” he whispers, running a hand over his face.

She turns and pulls him into a hug, snorting at his incredible height. “Merlin, Blaise. Ginny’s going to have quite a time forcing your watermelon-headed kid out of her.”

He shoves her away, scowling slightly. “Why do you always make it gross?”

She cackles and embraces him again.

*

The sun is rising.

Orange light floods the apartment, pushing against Pansy’s eyelids, making her groan and turn into Hermione.

“Did you forget to close the curtains?” She mumbles, voice grating against the quiet air.

“I didn’t-- you did,” Hermione mumbles back, flopping over so her face is mashed into the pillow.

“‘Ermione, you  _ totally _ forgot.”

Hermione groans and pushes herself off the bed, barely landing on her feet and not slamming into the wall, and stumbles towards the wide windows. With a grunt, she yanks the thick curtains closed, and the room is bathed in dark again.

She falls back into bed, sighing. “Now ‘m cold, and it’s all your fault.”

Pansy smiles slightly and yanks Hermione into her arms. “Not sorry.”

Hermione lets out a breathy laugh, folding into Pansy.

“Merlin, you are fucking cold. Like bloody ice,” Pansy grumbles, wincing slightly as Hermione drapes her frozen limbs over hers.

“‘S your fucking fault,” Hermione responds quietly, and a second later she’s asleep.

Pansy inhales, exhales, and feels her body start to wake.

She groans. She’s not getting back to sleep.

She tries, like, really hard, but it’s nearly impossible because Hermione’s heated up again, she’s about a thousand bloody degrees now, and now Pansy has to pee, and, great, now her throat hurts.

She squeezes her eyes shut, cursing her body, then slowly shifts, practically rolling out from under the covers, cursing the frigid air that hits her the minute her feet touch the ground. 

Swearing rapidly under her breath, she makes her way into the bathroom, softly closing the door. 

She flicks the light on, hissing slightly, and scans herself in the mirror, pleased at seeing her mussed hair, pink cheeks, and her eyes, which don’t have the familiar purple bags under them.

_ Take a vacation,  _ her agent had told her,  _ you’ll feel better.  _ She had rolled her eyes, but yeah. London was a vacation. It had been a vacation.

In New York, she’d spend hours at the mirror, trying to cover up her age, her exhaustion. Now… well, now she didn’t need to.

Instead of perfect, manicured, New York style, she feels comfortable, unbothered. She doesn’t cringe when she sees her hair messy, doesn’t rush to touch up her makeup. 

She doesn’t have her eye bags.

She snorts slightly at her thoughts, finishes up in the bathroom, and makes her way into Hermione’s living room. Slowly, quietly, she picks up the clothes and random lipstick tubes and fake eyelash cases that she’s left all over the flat, silently pleased at herself and thinking of the look on Hermione’s face when she wakes up to a clean apartment.

Her eyebrows will go up, and her mouth will fall into a little ‘o’ shape, and Pansy will receive a kiss on the cheek before Hermione bustles around, commenting on Pansy’s organizational skills, and it’ll be mostly positive but still a hint of ‘i could do better’ will shine through. 

Pansy won’t mind.

She picks up Hermione’s work bag, a leather satchel that Pansy bought for her fifteen years ago, and slings it over her shoulder, using her now free arms to sweep some extra papers and bills into a neat stack. 

She swings the bag around quite theatrically, lips curving up at herself, and, in a show of prowess she’s exceptionally proud of, launches the bag across the room, making it so it’ll land perfectly on the cushioned chair by the door, prepped and ready for Hermione to take it to work.

She misses.

The bag lands with a crash on the wood floors, all the papers and books in it spilling out, with such a loud  _ thud _ Pansy yelps.

Hermione rushes out the bedroom a second later, wand out, hair still wrapped up, swaying on her feet. “Who-- what--  _ Pansy _ !”

Pansy raises her hands defensively, stepping away from the mess. 

Hermione’s gaze snaps from Pansy to the bag, and after a moment of consideration, puts her wand away, swearing quickly and rudely, and starts gathering up all her things, casting glares Pansy’s way as she does so.

“I was trying to clean!” Pansy says, cutting through the swearing.

Hermione snorts. “Good job with that!”

“Do you want me to help?” Pansy asks, taking a few steps towards Hermione.

  
“No!” Hermione lifts up a hand, halting her. “Classified documents.”

Pansy sighs, feeling especially helpless as Hermione continues to scowl and sweep up classified documents and thick law books.

After a moment’s consideration, she comes up behind Hermione, wrapping her arms around her waist and resting her head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” she whispers into Hermione’s shoulder, thin, cotton fabric wrinkled from the sheets tickling her nose.

Hermione huffs and leans back into Pansy. “I can’t believe I’m forgiving you so easily.”

“Power of love and all that,” Pansy responds in a murmur, smiling. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on the book in Hermione’s hand. “What’s that?”

Hermione shakes her head, shrugging slightly. “Just some book I saw in the window of a bookstore a couple months ago on my way to work. Impulse buy, you know? Forgotten about it til now.”

Pansy lifts her hand, taking the book from Hermione. 

“ _ Empty Without You: The Intimate Letters of Eleanor Roosevelt and Lorena Hickok. _ Is Roosevelt that American?”

Hermione nods. “Apparently she was a lesbian. Looked interesting.”

“You grab anything with lesbians in it.”

Hermione snorts, but doesn’t deny it.

Pansy flips to a random page, letting out a low whistle. “ _ I’ve been trying to bring back your face — to remember just how you look. Funny how even the dearest face will fade away in time.”  _ She pauses, taking a deep breath, and continues after a long moment. _ “‘Most clearly I remember your eyes, with a kind of teasing smile in them, and the feeling of that soft spot just north-east of the corner of your mouth against my lips.’” _

Hermione tightens her grip on Pansy. “Well, that’s pretty gay.”

Pansy just nods and continues reading, getting temporarily lost in the words, something so rare for her.

“Listen to this,” she murmurs. “ _ I want to put my arms around you, I ache to hold you close. _ ”

Hermione smiles briefly, exhaling into Pansy’s neck.

“I miss you,” she whispers after several minutes, even though they’re right next to each other, hands on waists and heads on shoulders, like this missing has never stopped, and it never will.

*

They start reciting excerpts from letters to each other, forgotten, private words from two American women far, far away.

They still don’t talk about how one day, in the very near future, Pansy will leave again, but Hermione comes up behind Pansy while she’s cooking and, resting her head on Pansy’s shoulder, whispers, “ _ ‘Remember one thing always, no one is what you are to me. I’ve never enjoyed being with anyone the way I enjoy being with you.’ _ ” and late at night, under the cover of darkness, Pansy murmurs into a half-asleep Hermione’s ear, “‘ _ Someday perhaps fate will be kind and let us arrange a life more to our liking.’ _ ” and who knows, maybe it helps. 

Maybe it helps knowing that they’ll always have something to come back to when it ends, when whatever they’re doing finally slips out of their fingers. 

Maybe it helps.

*

_ eleven years ago _

“Hey, Hermione, so it’s 8:30, and we had dinner reservations at 7, so I’m just going to assume you’re working and forgot, or that you’ve been kidnapped. Anyway, I canceled dinner, rescheduled for next week. Call me back, okay? Uh, please don’t be kidnapped.”

Pansy was leaning against a lamppost, breath puffing out in the air, standing in front of a small brick building with a bag of Chinese food in her arms.

She didn’t know why she was disappointed. It wasn’t surprising anymore. She slipped the phone back into her pocket, straightening, and walked off, dumping the full bag into a trashcan on her way.

A moment later, she’s gone.

*

Hermione watches with bated breath as the numbers start to come in.

The race for Minister of Magic has had a dramatic conclusion, several recounts, declared ties, and now, the final poll. 

All Daniels has to do is win, and then her future’s set, it all will come together. 

All he has to do is win.

Pansy hasn’t been paying much attention to the race, whenever she sees numbers on the screen she automatically tunes out, but Hermione thinks it’s better this way. 

She watches, barely breathing, knowing that if Pansy were here Hermione wouldn’t be thinking of her career, she’d be thinking of running away into the Scottish highlands with Pansy at her side, and that wouldn’t help anyone.

_ Maybe Daniels will lose _ , a treacherous part of her thinks. Maybe he’ll lose, and she’ll move to New York with Pansy, and this life they’ve made for themselves in these past couple weeks will never end.

_ Tie!  _ The newscaster announces.  _ They’ve announced another tie. Too close to call.  _ Hermione swears under her breath.  _ In a few hours we’ll know more. _

She ducks her head.

*

January comes and goes in a blur of late night dinners and dancing in the kitchen and long, laugh-inducing board games. 

It’s gleefully shushing each other’s laughs as they sneak through the apartment building’s halls and running through parks at 2am. 

Together, they don’t feel the biting cold or the wet snow, only warmth and the press of lips against skin. 

Pansy’s days fall into a comfortable routine.

She spends the night with Hermione, eats breakfast with her, then goes to Draco and Harry’s flat (or Ginny and Blaise’s, if she’s up for a lot of yelling and fighting about nothing important), does her classes, then returns to Hermione.

She calls Camille and Louis often, enough for them to know about Hermione and for Hermione to know about them.

She was on the phone with Louis for two hours once, laughing her ass off, because she got her hands on an American tabloid that, almost hungrily, speculated on whether Louis was a top or bottom.

_ How’s Gavin?  _ She asked after the appropriate amount of insults, grinning.

_ Stunningly handsome,  _ Louis had replied.  _ But… we’ve been out a couple of times, and… I don’t know. It’s shitty, he’s actually really dumb. _

_ Merlin, really? _

Louis had sighed heavily through the phone, making Pansy laugh.  _ He’s as dumb as he is beautiful. _

_ You gonna keep seeing him, then? _

_ God, yes. Do you think I’m an idiot? _

Camille had landed a role with a traveling theater company, and at the beginning of May would set out on a North American tour that would last until November.

_ November at the very earliest! If we do really well, I could be on the road for years. _

Pansy was incredibly happy for her, but had the distinct feeling that her life nowadays was just borrowed time.

Borrowed time with Draco and Blaise, borrowed time with Hermione, now borrowed time with Camille.

It was all a countdown, a ticking off of days before she left them or they left her.

_ That’s what you get for hanging out with people who love their careers more than they love themselves,  _ Blaise had told her when she begrudgingly expressed this sentiment to him.

_ I’m this close to being angry at you again,  _ she had replied.

She had Apparated back to Hermione’s apartment after, and ranted about lesson plans for a bit before falling onto the couch and letting the soft piano music ringing through the apartment lull her to sleep.

Hermione watched her sleep, worrying her lip, thinking about… everything, really.

Hermione’s days weren’t settling into a routine. 

Leo Folley had his court date. June 12th, which seemed like an eternity away but also not long enough to build the case she needed, so she just lived in this near-constant state of stress. Plus, whenever Hermione visited Leo he seemed more and more disillusioned, which didn’t bode well for his testimony.

_ I didn’t kill her. But they’re going to say I did. _

_ That’s what I’m here for. We’ll put you under Veritaserum, we’ll present the DNA evidence, and we’ll present the tapes of your conversation with Dollard, okay? They can’t convict you with that much evidence. _

_ And what if they do? _

_  
_ _Then I’ll fight it with every mite of my being._

She pores over files of past cases, knows acutely she’s fighting an uphill battle. 

Every day she opens the newspaper to see another op-ed about how reckless she’s being, putting murderers back on the street, and how the trio that saved the Wizarding World is showing themselves to be uncouth, egotistical, and generally dangerous more and more with every decision they make (Harry because he’s gay, Hermione because she’s gay and fighting deep-seated oppression in the Wizarding World, and Ron because he doesn’t care about these things and therefore is seen as complicit). 

Pansy reads with her, muttering about idiotic bastards, and usually the newspaper ends up as a pile of ashes in the bin because of Pansy’s impulsive frustration.

_ You shouldn’t have done that, _ Hermione chastises her, but giggles when Pansy scowls in response.

Pansy’s all but moved into her apartment now, and every time she looks around and sees the clothes strewn about and the high heels perched near the door, she can’t help but smile. It’s comforting, admittedly, knowing that when she comes home from a long day of reading legalese that she’ll be able to lay in someone’s arms and tell them about it.

Sometimes she stays late at work, like absurdly late, and when she walks into the flat she can see the glimmer of panic in Pansy’s eye, that things aren’t different at all, and Hermione will stay at the office until midnight and Pansy will go to sleep alone. 

Back when things were really bad, sometimes Hermione would just sleep at the office, just so she wouldn’t have to face Pansy.

Now, she tries to get out early.

(She knows when Pansy leaves she’ll probably spend all of her time at the office, just for something to do.)

“Hey,” Pansy says from where she’s standing by the door, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts. “I’m going to get my hair done, okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that. When’ll you be back?”

Pansy shrugs. “3ish.”

Hermione leans over the counter, heart fluttering when Pansy responds and kisses her, warm and long.

They’ve done it a thousand times. There are no new surprises, Pansy’s hand on her waist is usual and calming, the feeling of her hair slipping through Hermione’s fingers isn’t strange. 

It’s typical and unsurprising and familiar, and Hermione shouldn’t feel like she’ll die if it stops. But she does.

*

_ ten years ago _

“You’re home early.”

“It’s eight o’clock. I’d hardly say that’s early.”

Hermione shouldn’t have said anything.

She should have just nodded and moved on, but instead she said something, something Pansy will twist, and it’ll cause a fight, and Hermione will wish that she had never come home in the first  place.

“It’s early for you. Sometimes you don’t come home until midnight. What’s the occasion today?”

Hermione barely holds in a sigh and just leans against the door. “Occasion?”

“Well, obviously, if you’re home by eight something grand must be happening. Is it my birthday?” Pansy says in a sarcastic drawl, the voice that Hermione used to smile at but now can’t stand.

“Can we not do this tonight?”

“Do what? Talk about how I’ve spent the last few weeks alone while you’re off working 24 hours a day?”

“Yeah, ‘off working’ and  _ making money _ while doing it. Which is more than you can say with your job.”

She shouldn’t have said it. 

“I’m sorry, what are you insinuating?”

“Never mind.”

Pansy stands, face contorted in anger. “No,  _ not _ never mind. What the fuck did you mean by that?”

Hermione doesn’t bother hiding her sigh and the scowl on her face. “I just… where’s the money, P ansy? You’ve worked at the Panther for years, and there hasn’t been a raise, a job change… where’s the money?”

She wants to say  _ where’s the drive?  _ because she has a sneaking suspicion the reason that Pansy hasn’t changed jobs yet is purely because Panther is comfortable, it’s easy, it’s safe, which is exactly what Hogwarts was to her after a while, and Hermione knows how that ended up (FAIL in all categories on her NEWTs). But she doesn’t, because she’s tired, and doesn’t feel like yelling.

“I  _ like _ my job. Can you even say that?”

Hermione pushes into the bedroom, desperate to get away from Pansy’s burning gaze. “I  _ do _ like my job. You should too, after all, it’s the only reason you were allowed to drop that waitressing gig.”

“You act like I’m completely reliant on you,” Pansy snaps from behind her.

The truth is, Pansy could return to her old money in a blink, and they both know it. But it would require her to apologize, to accept the path her mother has chosen for her, and that’ll never happen, so Pansy  _ is _ reliant on her.

But they don’t bring that sort of stuff up.

“I never said that.”

“Merlin, Hermione, you didn’t need to.”

“Can you stop acting like the victim for one second? I’m home, okay? I thought we could eat dinner together or something.”

Pansy laughs hollowly. “I had dinner hours ago.” Hermione hears something slam, and suddenly Pansy’s in front of her, shoving a plate into her hands. “I saved you some.”

Hermione locks eyes with Pansy, and it’s just for a tense, sharp moment, but in that moment, although they’re only five feet apart, Hermione’s never felt further from her.

“Thank you,” she says mechanically, emotionlessly.

Pansy scoffs and turns away. “Fucking typical.”

Hermione hears the screech of a chair’s legs against linoleum floors. “I’m going to work!” Pansy yells pointedly, then a door slams, and silence hangs in the apartment.

Deafening silence.

*

_ ten years ago, an hour later _

The man was short and skinny, slightly mousy looking, with unwashed brown hair matted on his head and red dotting his pale face.

He seemed like the fidgety type, but as Pansy swept her gaze over him, cold and calculating, he didn’t move, simply returned her stare.

“I really think we could be something together,” he told her again, thick Boston accent grating against her ears. At least, she thought it was Boston. When she asked earlier, he just waved a hand and laughed out,  _ New England _ . Pansy had no idea what the fuck that meant, but vaguely emembered from her mother’s mandatory geography lessons that Boston’s around that area of America, so in her mind he had a Boston accent.

“Thank you for your interest,” she said to him, casually but firmly. “But I can’t move to New York.”

He cocked his head, looking more and more like a rodent, and started waving his hands around. “Why? I’m the best agent in all of New York and-- well, you, you’re the best singer I’ve ever heard. I could get you set up with record deals, auditions, TV slots, anything you want.”

“I can’t do that from London?” She challenged, feeling slightly more confident as his face flushed.

“To be honest, Ms. Parkinson, no. You can’t. For real, big success… you have to come to America.”

She clenched her jaw and decided not to answer.

The agent,  _ Don Greene,  _ had rushed her as soon as she got off stage, announcing his name with a confidence he obviously hadn’t earned but thought he had, and forcefully shook her hand.

She didn’t smell any liquor on his breath, surprising, but he talked rapidly and clumsily, tripping up on his elevator pitch multiple times, irking Pansy to a great degree. Pansy had brushed past him, sat down at the bar, desperate to ignore him. He had positioned himself next to her, talking excitedly about the success she could have if she just gave up what he liked to call the ‘London dream’.

That piqued her interest.

It shouldn’t have, but it did.

_ London dream?  _ She had asked.

_ New York is where true success happens. Not anywhere else. It’s hard for a lot of people to process. _

“What do you have holding you here, Ms. Parkinson? A boyfriend? Friends? A nice apartment? You can have all that and more in New York.”

She directed a scathing glare his way.

“Take my number,” he urged. “I’m in London until the end of the next month. I would love to have you on my team.”

He waved his wand, and a delicate looking business card landed in her hand. 

“Think about it.”

She nodded and stood, needing to go back on stage.

“Think about it!” He called after her.

*

The long hallway is comforting now. The first time Pansy had walked it, with the flickering lights and splintery wood floors, with a ring in her hand and words screaming at her from inside her head, it seemed like it was calling her to her death, but now it feels like she’s returning to home. 

She’s returning to Hermione.

She slows to a stop in front of Hermione’s apartment, cursing herself inwardly for the cheesy thought, banishing the small smile on her face, and pulls out her key, driving it into the lock.

Pansy fiddles with it, feeling the lock jam, cursing Hermione’s Muggle apartment building and how old it is, and, after far too long, finally makes it through the apartment door, a remark about ‘that fuck of a lock’ already on her lips.

“That fuck of a lock--”

The words are abruptly gone, stolen from her, when she sees Hermione sitting on the couch, curled into herself, sobbing.

“Wh-- hey, Hermione, what’s wrong?”

She drops her bag and even though normally she’d be rushing towards Hermione, desperate to console her, Pansy’s feet are rooted to the floor, stomach sinking and hands starting to shake.

“Hermione--”

She’s cut off by a loud, hiccuping sob. Hermione stands, hands cradling her face, and she gestures to the TV.

Pansy slowly makes her way into the living room, scanning the TV, preparing for a disaster or something like that, but all she sees are a bunch of numbers on the screen.

Certain she’s missing something, she asks, “What is it?”

Hermione doesn’t respond, alternating between staring daggers at Pansy and scanning the TV worriedly.

“ _ Hermione _ ,” Pansy urges, heart starting to thud in her chest.

“Daniels  _ won _ , Pansy,” Hermione snaps, eyes narrowed.

“Who… who’s that?” Pansy asks, feeling distinctly like she’s doing something wrong.

“Fucking Minister of Magic!” Hermione shrieks, giving Pansy all the confirmation she needs that she did, in fact, do something wrong.

Pansy inhales sharply. “Oh.”

She hadn’t even been paying attention to the election. She wasn’t eligible to vote, with so much time away. She would have had to re-register, but any ballot she cast would probably be thrown out automatically on the basis of her leaving again in less than a month.

But she knew enough about what Hermione had been hurriedly whispering about these past couple weeks. Her campaign manager had been calling her night and day, demanding a meeting. Pansy hadn’t bothered checking to see if they had actually set one up.

“Oh,” she repeats. “Daniels won, and now you’ll be officially launching your campaign. I get it. Oh.”

“Yeah.  _ Oh _ .”

“And I’m going to be leaving in three weeks.”

It’s the first time she’s said it like this, like an ending, like a real-time event, instead of just some far off future. It spills out, involuntary, aggravating. Hermione clenches her jaw, like she can’t bear hearing it.

“You’re going to be Minister of Magic, and I’m going to be back in New York.”

“Don’t-- I may not win,” Hermione protests weakly, face settling in this tired, thin expression.

Pansy locks eyes with Hermione, remarking flatly, “Daniels is possibly the most uninteresting candidate in the entire history of Ministers of Magic. Which is really saying something, you know. You’ll win.”

Hermione doesn’t smile, even though Pansy intended it as a joke, and actually thought it was actually quite funny, considering the circumstances.

“This is real, isn’t it?” Hermione says instead, biting her lip. “Daniels won.” And it’s two words, but it contains everything they don’t want to hear, it contains _this is ending very soon and_ _nothing we can do will stop it._

Pansy grits her teeth.

“We could always try long distance.”

Hermione’s gaze snaps to hers, eyes widening. “Long distance doesn’t work.”

“How do you know it won’t? We’re  _ us _ ,” Pansy says sharply, knowing it’s a stupid, useless hill to die on but also not caring.

  
“We aren’t the fucking _exception_! We learned that a long time ago!”

Pansy reels back, the statement hitting her harder than she’d ever admit, because she vividly remembers a time when she used to think that they were the exception, that life would get to everyone but them, and was devastated when proven wrong. 

But that small voice in the back of her head is whispering  _ things are different now,  _ and she’s speaking before she can stop herself.

“I’ll just fucking Portkey to New York every day then.”

Hermione laughs hollowly, eyes shining, and Pansy hates herself for doing this to her. “Christ, that’s an idea. Let me describe to you how that goes, you ready? Okay, you move in with me, Portkey every morning to New York. It’s exhausting and painful and-- oh! What if you forget something here? Do you miraculously find another Portkey perfectly on schedule or try to Apparate across the bloody Atlantic and risk losing a fucking limb?”

“Hermione--”

“So you get a place in New York, just to keep your stuff there, you know, but it’s so much easier staying there than catching a late Portkey, and suddenly you’re never coming home and even though we promised each other we would stay together we just  _ aren’t _ anymore. Because--”

“ _ Hermione-- _ ”

“Because I will  _ always _ be more committed to my work, and so will you.”

The statement snuffs out any and all hope Pansy once had.

Because, yeah, up until now she had just assumed that something would work, all the pieces would fall into place at the last second, and they would be able to stay together. 

But they couldn’t.

“Why would you say that?” She finally forces out a moment later, mouth dry.

“Because-- because it’s true!”

“I don’t want it to be true!”

“You can’t ignore the truth, Pansy. Believe me, I’ve been thinking about this non- stop for  _ months _ .”

“Wh-- you’ve  _ thought _ about this?”

“Of course I’ve thought about this! I’ve run through every single scenario!”

“We won’t know if we never try!” Pansy snaps, and it’s desperate and foolish and Hermione takes an angry, abrupt step towards her then, face contorting in pain.

“We  _ can’t _ , Pansy, that’s the bloody point!”

“What if I stay? What if you go?”

Hermione clenches her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“I don’t want to hate you,” she whispers. “And if I move to New York I will hate you. And if you stay in London you will hate me. Don’t try and deny it.”

Pansy goes silent, mind running through a thousand different responses, and none of them are good enough and none of them are right.

She takes a small, unsure step towards Hermione, heart thudding. 

“I don’t know if I can leave you again,” she whispers, forcing the words out because she knows if she doesn't say them now she never will.

Hermione meets her gaze, steely and unyielding. “You had no problem last time.”

Pansy turns away, an inane laugh bubbling in her chest. She wants to say  _ I came back  _ and  _ it wasn’t all my fault _ and  _ that’s not what we’re talking about, really, _ but she doesn’t. It won’t help anything.

She feels a warm presence against her side, knows it’s Hermione. 

“I don’t want to leave,” she says in a low voice.

Hermione laughs against her shoulder, _ she’s so short _ , and replies, “I don’t want you to leave either.”

Pansy turns her head, meeting Hermione’s gaze.

Her neighbor’s leftover Christmas lights shine in through the window, dancing in Hermione’s eyes, pink, red, orange, green, blue, purple, flickering and glittering, not unlike a flower unfolding, like a violin’s strings being plucked.

It’s absolutely mesmerizing.

Pansy tilts her head, leans down, brushes her lips against Hermione’s, barely anything, not even a full touch, but it contains years and years and years of words, strung together like the lights outside, and the kiss doesn’t deepen, doesn’t change. Feather light touch, hands on waists and tears mingling.

Pansy forces herself to pull away.

Hermione lets out a shuddering sigh, grip tightening on Pansy almost imperceptibly. After a long moment, she clears her throat. “March 1933, Eleanor to Lorena,  _ you have grown so much to be a part of my life that it is empty without you even though I’m busy every minute _ .”

Pansy laughs, though she doesn’t feel much like laughing. “Your memorization skills are unparalleled.”

She can feel Hermione’s smile.

“Why, thank you.”

Pansy clears her throat, straightening. “Hermione,” she starts, “I think we need to break up.”

“Did that occur to you just now?”

“Listen, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Hermione snorts, shoving her away. “Dick.”

“Let’s still be friends,” Pansy continues, catching Hermione and pulling her back, flush against her. “Can we still be friends? I just need some space, you know?”

Hermione laughs brightly, twisting to kiss Pansy.

“You’re going to make somebody really happy someday,” Pansy whispers against her lips, tilting their foreheads together.

Hermione sighs against her lips, hands clutching at Pansy’s shirt. “You’re such a dick.”

*

The days move too fast. 

Hermione wakes up, comforted slightly by the fact that Pansy’s not leaving for another 21 days, but in a blur of dinner dates and hushed kisses, it’s suddenly only 18, and rapidly after that 12.

Time slips away, vanishes.

The days move too fast.

*

_ ten years ago _

“I’m sorry, what?” Hermione asked, as politely as she can manage.

  
The woman smiled at her, an unnerving, wide smile. “I represent a team of staff that like to… _scout_ for potential political candidates within the Wizarding World. You’ve come up on our radar, and we’re very interested in working with you.”

Hermione blinked.

“ _ Working _ with me?”

The woman nodded, the uncomfortably broad smile still on her face.

“We would like to help you become Minister of Magic.”

Anything Hermione would have or could have said was gone in a flash, replaced by a tiny little voice in her head screaming _ Minister of Magic! Minister of Magic! _ Over and over again.

The woman simply looked at her, waiting, smile fading.

“You’re serious?” Hermione finally forced out, voice wavering.

The woman laughed, loud and inappropriate. “Deadly.”

“I can’t be Minister of Magic-- that’s-- that’s simply  _ ridiculous _ !” Hermione yelped, pushing back her chair, chest heaving in quick breaths.

(Except maybe she could.)

The Minister of Magic they had right now was awful, angry and combative, and they’d never had a woman Minister of Magic, had they? Especially not a black woman, a  _ gay _ woman-- She could work on Muggle connections, getting proper, truthful education in schools, she could form the Wizarding World to her view-- she could help so many. It’d be selfish, honestly, to pass this up, especially when this woman was so confident in her chances.

“Ms. Granger?”

Did she even want to be Minister of Magic? It would be exhausting, a lot of travel, and  _ so _ many hours, and people would be watching her all the time-- though they already did that, and she already worked a ridiculous amount and--

“ _ Ms. Granger _ .”

“Tell me how it’ll work,” she said quickly, pulling her chair back up to the desk.

The woman grinned, a shark’s smile, and presented a large binder. “It’s a ten year plan.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised, forehead wrinkling as she ran her finger along the edge of the impressive but foreboding document. “Ten years?”

She nodded.

“Ten years.”

*

Eight days.

They kiss unashamedly on the street and make sly euphemisms in front of their friends. Pansy plucks at the piano at night while Hermione sits next to her, imagining each note as a moment that can never be taken away from her.

Time doesn’t slow down, it never will.

Hermione wishes she could paint, if only to paint the shadow from Pansy’s heels that she stacks by the door, when the sun is low and streaming through the windows. 

She wants to remember it.

*

_ ten years ago _

Hermione hadn’t come home.

It wasn’t surprising. She had taken to sleeping at the office, a thoroughly enraging habit. It left Pansy alone, nearly all the time.

Hermione darted back to change and eat and shower when Pansy was at work, a bitter fact Pansy had discovered when she came home early to see Hermione wolfing down a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table a couple weeks ago.

Her eyes had slid to Pansy like she had been  _ caught _ , and that simple action was all Pansy needed to confirm that Hermione had no intention of seeing her that day, maybe had no intention of possibly ever seeing her again.

It had been months since they had sex or even kissed, four weeks since they had had a conversation that didn’t end in screaming, and five days since Pansy had actually seen Hermione in the flesh.

She was sitting on her bed,  _ their _ bed, the one she used to enlarge every night but now just slept in alone.  _ Which is more pathetic?  _ She wondered.

She had the business card in the palm of her hand.  _ DON GREENE AGENCY FOR ASPIRING ACTORS AND SINGERS. _

He wasn’t in town anymore, but she could still call him. Set up a meeting with him. Become one of his clients.

It would require moving to New York, quitting her job, breaking up with Hermione, leaving her friends. 

It all seemed outlandish, impossible. She was going to leave a secure, happy life for the possibility of success continents away?

_ It’s not very happy anymore  _ flitted across her mind.

Which brought up another question. Was she just unhappy, desperately clinging at anything and everything that came her way? Did she even  _ want _ to go to New York? Or did she just want to leave her life as she knew it?

Her phone was in her hand. The business card right next to it.

Did she wait for things to get better, or did she leave when she had the chance?

She dialed the number. Impulsive, a quick touch of buttons.

“Hello?”

Her breath caught in her throat, her finger hovered over the  _ end call _ button.

“Hi, this is Don Greene’s office. Who’s speaking?”

Pansy’s eyes strayed to a photo of her and Hermione, grinning and wrapped around each other, draped in white fabric and eyes dotted with gold. Arthur Weasley had taken that photo minutes before Draco and Harry had officially been married.

_ Do you ever think of doing anything like this?  _ Hermione had said, mere hours before that picture had been taken.  _ Getting married?  _ A nod. _ I thought you were against marriage,  _ Pansy had replied.  _ Not when it’s with you _ , Hermione had whispered, a stunning, beautiful truth.

“Hello?  _ Hello _ ? Is anyone there?”

Pansy had never been more happy than when Hermione had said that.

“Is someone there?”

But they had never gotten married. They weren’t going to get married.

And Pansy hadn’t been that happy in years.

“Sorry, hi, hello. This is Pansy Parkinson for Don Greene.”

*

London’s big and bright and beautiful at night. Glowing lights and slicked streets and quiet, hushed movement.

It steals Hermione’s breath away, even after 35 years.

She’s glad they came out here, back to their park bench. Hermione, about an hour ago, received news that the prosecution in Leo’s case had something big, like ridiculously, case-making big, and she can’t spare another day away, which means she can’t see Pansy off to New York tomorrow morning.

She was so incredibly upset, but Pansy had suggested they come back here, to the park bench, like some sort of last hurrah, a final goodbye, and she was briefly appeased.

“Did you miss London, when you were away?” Hermione asks her, thinking of the packed boxes back at her apartment.

She doesn’t know why she asks. It’s not like Pansy will realize that she did, in fact, miss London, so she should totally stay. It’s not even for some kind of desperate closure, just a stupid, useless question.

Pansy, at her side, nods. “Not so much as the years went by. But I did.”

“And you missed me?”

In Hermione’s periphery she can see Pansy turn, and, in a drawling tone, one that makes Hermione think she’s rolling her eyes, says, “I feel like you know the answer to that question.”

“And you’ll miss me when you go away again?” She responds, raspy voice grating against the quiet night.

There’s a pause.

A long, deep pause that Hermione wants to sink into, she never wants to leave this silence, this beautiful silence, maybe she even wants to die in this silence.

“I’ll always miss you.”

Hermione sighs, slightly upset the pause ended, even if it was for the sake of lovely, lilting words, and rests her head on Pansy’s shoulder, shivering as the wind starts to pick up.

“It’s not like this with other people,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Pansy responds after a while. “But we’ll be fine.”

*

_ ten years ago _

“You never come the fuck  _ home _ ! When would I have had an opportunity to even fucking  _ tell _ you?”

“You could have called me, implied the importance of the goddamn situation or something! For fuck’s sake, Pansy, you’re  _ moving _ to  _ New York _ . Without telling me, or discussing it with me--”

“What’s there to fucking discuss?! This hasn’t been working for a long fucking time, okay? We both fucking know it!”

Hermione stopped short, face contorting. “You-- just because you want to break up with me doesn’t mean that you pack up and move across the  _ fucking Atlantic _ without even having the decency to tell me.”

“This is a career move!” Pansy almost screeches, hauling up her packed suitcase and throwing it towards the door. 

“Don’t lie to yourself, and don’t fucking lie to me! You never would have even  _ heard _ this fucking agent out if we were still happy--” Her voice drops to a near whisper, harsh and unforgiving. “This is as much a career move as leaving this fucking  _ note _ is.”

Hermione picks up a scrap of paper, one Pansy never intended to have to take responsibility for, and waves it around. “Shall we read it?”

“I know what it fucking says-- okay! You don’t have to do that-- Hermione, Merlin above--”

“ _ This isn’t working anymore. I’m moving to New York. Goodbye. _ Really? That’s your fucking ‘I’m leaving you’ note?”

“Sorry it isn’t fucking  _ perfect _ ! There’s a reason I threw it out!”

“Yeah, so you could just pack up and fucking  _ leave-- _ let’s be honest with each other, you had no intention of telling me, of doing the fucking decent thing and letting me know that you were leaving me and--”

“‘Moving across the bloody Atlantic’, I fucking know! You’ve said it a thousand times!”

“You’re a fucking coward, Pansy.”

“Re-- really?  _ I’m _ the coward? I’m the one who started sleeping at the office and crashing on Ron’s fucking couch so I wouldn’t have to see you and take responsibility for my actions? I did that?  _ Me _ ?”

“Pansy--”

“No, Hermione, let’s be honest with each other.  _ You _ were the one who didn’t come home for weeks straight,  _ you _ were the one who blew off our dinner dates in favor of work, and  _ you _ were the one who  _ drove _ me away.”

“ _ Drove you away _ \-- Jesus! You aren’t blameless here, Pansy!”

“What the fuck did  _ I _ do?”

“You fucking  _ cheated _ on me! Have you forgotten about that?”

“That was two years ago--”

“More excuses?”

“I thought we got over that! Together!”

“It still fucking  _ happened _ , Pansy! Jesus!”

“Maybe I was just trying to get back some of the life you  _ stole _ from me--”

“Are you fucking-- you’re fucking serious, aren’t you? Get the fuck out of my apartment--”

“ _ Your _ apartment?”

“I literally walked in on you  _ packing _ ! To  _ leave _ ! So, yeah, it’s  _ my _ apartment. And I want you to get the  _ fuck _ out!”

“You’ve stolen  _ seven years _ from me--”

“You’ve stolen seven years from me too! Jesus, Pansy! You fucking--” Hermione laughs, a hollow, blood-chilling thing. “I can’t even remember why I used to love you,” she mutters.

She looks up, meets Pansy’s gaze, sees the hard, cold eyes, the firm set of her jaw, the scowl on her face, sees the devastation in the lines of her face and in the whites of her knuckles.

“I hope I never see you again,” Pansy says.

The door slams.

And Hermione’s left in silence.

*

“Did you miss London, when you were away?” Hermione says, voice ringing out into the quiet air.

Pansy nods. “Not so much as the years went by… but I did.”

“And you missed me?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “I feel like you know the answer to that,” she says, leaning back onto the bench, eyes almost fluttering closed.

“And you’ll miss me when you go away again?” Hermione replies, sounding startlingly like she’s about to cry.

Pansy doesn’t say anything for a long time. Mostly because she’s thinking about how different things would be, if she had stayed all those years ago. She wouldn’t be successful, Pansy thinks, she would still be stuck in stagnant, itchy London, desperate for more but not knowing what to do or where to find it. Hermione and her would have ended anyway, it was inevitable, but they never would have made their way back together, it would’ve been over for good. Maybe she would still have Don Greene’s business card, tucked away in a drawer, and maybe sometimes she would go over and look at it, and wonder what could have been.

She almost laughs, thinking of her dramatic other self.

She thinks about how she now knows that leaving ten years ago was the right decision, that if she had done it any other way she would never have ended up here.

She wants to tell Hermione that although where they are right now is difficult and bitter, it’s also for the best. She w ants to congratulate Hermione on her new job and tell her she’ll be a wonderful Minister of Magic, and that Pansy will be front row at her inauguration.

She wants to tell her that whenever she looks at the packed boxes back at the flat she wants to throw up, and she’s not giving her her key back because she can’t bear to part with it, and a million other small, worthless platitudes.

But all of that’s complicated and messy, so she settles for the simple truth.

“I’ll always miss you,” she says.

Hermione exhales.

“It’s not like this with other people,” she says, so quietly Pansy barely hears it.

It isn’t. She’s never felt about anyone the way she feels about Hermione. It worries her sometimes. But she doesn’t want Hermione to think too much about it, especially when it’s all ending so soon.

“Yeah. But we’ll be fine.”

*

_ ten years ago _

_You’re leaving,_ Draco says, and it’s whispered and unbelieving, and when she replies _yes_ he stands and abruptly walks away. Blaise is clutching her hand but he isn’t looking at her and she know he feels betrayed, because she is supposed to stay, here, with them, best friends until fucking death. _You can’t leave London just because you and Hermione had a spat--_ and Pansy cuts Blaise off before he can say anything else, heart thudding dully in her chest. _Hermione and I are done. It’s over._ And suddenly Draco’s standing next to her, a shadowed look on his face and his hand cemented on her shoulder. _You and Hermione can work this out. Whatever it is… you always do._ She replies, _Not this time._ Draco takes a shuddering breath and says, eyes shining with tears, _You’re leaving, just because of this?_ And Pansy can’t fucking look at Draco, she can’t fucking look at Blaise, because, at the end of this, they’ll go back home to their spouses and can cry in their arms, when the only future that awaits her is glittering buildings and empty apartments and her voice ringing out over an space that is, yes, packed full with people, but no one Pansy cares about. No one Pansy loves. _I can’t stay here anymore. But I love you guys._ And they’ve never said that to each other before, it’s just been this unspoken, delicate thing, because people like them don’t say that to each other, even though they’ve been saying it to other people for years. _We love you. I love you._ They’ve known each other since birth and have never been apart, even through a war, but she’s leaving, and it’s hard to comprehend, hard to imagine. _I love you,_ she says again, forcing the words out. And then Pansy’s gone. She’s gone.

And ten years later she says it again,  _ I love you guys _ , except this time it isn’t heartbreaking or devastating, it’s expected, and and it’s sad, but it’s much different than ten years ago, when her world crumbled and the only thing she could do was escape. This time, it feels  _ right _ . They all feel it.  _ You’ll come back?  _ Draco asks.  _ Only after I win three more Tony’s. _ Blaise grins at her.  _ So we’ll be seeing you soon, then?  _ She yanks Blaise into her embrace and laughs into his neck.  _ You flatter me.  _ She’s standing in the same place she did ten years ago, she’s crying like she did ten years ago, Hermione’s gone just like ten years ago, except in this world she knows that one day she’ll come back, she knows it’ll be okay, even if right now her heart is tearing itself into pieces because she has so many doubts, just like ten years ago, and it’s been  _ ten fucking years,  _ and she’s  _ old _ , and she doesn’t know whether or not this job will go well, probably not _.  _ She embraces Blaise, she embraces Draco.  _ I love you guys,  _ she says again.  _ We love you. _ And Pansy’s gone, she’s gone. Eight days, four days, two days, whatever, it’s all worthless now. She’s gone.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch.5 will be up very soon.


	5. it's ending and beginning (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later

_ ten years later _

It’s been ten years. 

Ten ordinary, calm years. 

Ten years of traveling around the world, countless interviews, autographs on the street, fame like she’s never known it before.

Ten years of stinging spotlights, waking up every morning and seeing her name in lights, constant, unending vocal training and acting workshops.

Ten years of stale relationships that go nowhere and writing long letters to Draco and Blaise.

Pansy’s 45. 

Ten years ago, she started as the lead for  _ Glow,  _ which was supposed to be the biggest thing since Hamilton.

It wasn’t.

(It was bigger.)

She was catapulted into the mainstream with her face on billboards, her voice echoing through cars and small shops, pumping through earbuds.

She gets recognized everywhere she goes.

Pansy can afford nutritionists and top of the line skincare now, so she’s looked better than she has in years. She’s started wearing glasses (pulls them off fabulously), but has to wear contacts for shows.

Her skin is darker than it used to be, a permanent tan from the years of travel, especially the summer they performed in LA. She shaves her head now, she pulls it off even more fabulously than the glasses, plus now it’s easier to wear wigs.

Her world is glitz and glam and exhausting and fulfilling like she’s never known before. 

She wouldn’t trade it for anything.

She rarely goes back to London. It’s too difficult.

For about a year after she left, she and Hermione wrote letters back and forth, updating each other on the comings and goings of their lives. Pansy has kept every single one, and guards them viciously. 

The letters stopped coming after a while. Pansy was so relieved when they did. Not because she didn’t want to hear from Hermione, but because it became so hard after a while, to write something out knowing that Hermione wouldn’t respond for days because of her workload, and when she finally did respond, the letter would stay unopened in Pansy’s mailbox for at least two weeks until she finally jetted back to her Manhattan apartment after a bunch of shows in Seattle.

She reads them at night sometimes, when she’s extra lonely.

The letters tear her open, fill her with beautiful words and lilting sentences and memories of a time that is so long ago now.

Sometimes she also goes back to Eleanor Roosevelet’s and Lorena Hickok’s letters, tracing her finger over  _ Thanks again, you dear, for all the sweet things you think of and do. And I love more than I love anyone else in the world _ , remembering the sound of Hermione’s voice as she said it, how it felt against her cheek.

But it’s been ten years of the same costume, same songs, same wig, and she’s beginning to get tired of it, no matter how many letters she rereads and how many places she visits.

No, not beginning to get tired of it, she’s been tired of it for a while now. A lot of the original cast is gone now, moved on, and it’s time for her to move on too.

Tonight is the last show she’ll be doing with  _ Glow _ .

Call is in half an hour, their last show is in Manhattan, a request from Pansy that the producers had begrudgingly fulfilled.

The news broke that it would be Pansy’s last show, and seats had filled so quickly Pansy didn’t even have a chance to try and reserve any seats for Draco or Blaise. It was huge, it had been  advertised for two months straight. 

Pansy’s not a fan of endings. She knows it has to happen, there’s no other option, but still she feels mournful, itchy, uncomfortable.

She hates endings.

She has one of Hermione’s letters in her hand, one from maybe about five months after Pansy had left.

This one’s her favorite.

Whenever something big happens she returns to it, like when she heard that Camille was pregnant, when she read in one of Draco’s letters that Ron and Lavender were divorcing.

She’s read this letter probably twenty times in the last few months, when she decided to leave, when she saw the first billboard advertising her departure, when her agent gravely informed her that there were no job offers and no auditions.

_ Lull,  _ she had said. He had nodded.  _ I can contact the director and ask if you can stay with Glow.  _ She had firmly rejected that idea, especially because news of her leaving the cast had swept across… well, everywhere. It was too late now. 

So she’s reading the letter. Tucked in a chair in the dressing room, the voices and the laughs and the raucous cheers slowly fading away as she grips the thin parchment.

_ Pansy, I’ve been thinking of this Richard Siken quote lately, almost obsessively. “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” I mean, I know you had to leave. There was no other option, or no other version of our story, as one might say. But I miss you. Is that inappropriate to say? I hope it isn’t, just because I want to say it again. I miss you. I miss the face you make when you’re cooking, and the sound of your voice echoing through the flat. I miss your laugh when you’re tired, and I miss the sound of you coming through my apartment door (I always knew it was you, because your key always got stuck, and then you would start swearing). I know you’re getting along well in New York, after all, all the tabloids say that you’re the next Meryl Streep. But a small, selfish part of me wishes you never would have left, only if so I could hear you coming through my apartment door one more time. _

_ But enough about that. Richard Siken has some good quotes, other than the one I shared above. I’ll leave you with my favorite (The one above is my least favorite, just because it reminds me of you leaving, while this next one just simply reminds me of you).  _

_ “Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we’ll never get used to it.” _

_ Love, Hermione. _

Hermione was Europe’s new Minister of Magic.

Well, she had been for six years. She was elected handily, because even the worst of the negative opinion articles couldn’t faze her. She was reelected, and now had two years left of her second term. She could run again, but most didn’t. Running for a third term almost always meant losing. But, of course, Hermione was different.

Political pundits obsessively talked about Hermione’s future in politics, speculating on whether or not she was going to go after a third term, but no one could get an answer out of her. She was mysterious like that. In Draco’s letters, he called her the most infuriating Minister of Magic for journalists, but the most useful one for the people. 

It’s a title Pansy knows Hermione’s proud of, even if she hasn’t talked to her in eight years.

In another letter, Hermione talked about the stressors of the campaign, how it’s stealing time away from her clients.  _ It’s worth it, in the end, I know that. But I haven’t slept in two days and miss you so very dearly. I didn’t mean to write that. I’m too tired to cross it out. _

Pansy had simply replied,  _ Get more sleep, darling. _

It was one of the last letters she sent to Hermione.

Pansy reread the ending of the letter, face reddening, then folded the parchment in half, stuffing it back in her purse. She stood, inhaling, exhaling, thinking of the stupidly profound Richard Siken and endings.

The next couple hours go by in a blur of sweat and makeup and laughing and stealing a sip from a flask at intermission and receiving cards and gifts from her castmates and drinking in applause like she’ll never hear it again.

The last song in the show, the very last line, the very last  _ note _ is supposed to be sung by the entire cast, but a chorus member suggested everyone except Pansy drops it, allowing Pansy to have one last hurrah.

It’s the best suggestion Pansy’s ever heard from a chorus member, honestly, and for a brief moment she feels bad about never learning his name.

The last song comes up, and the spotlight has never felt more heavy, pinning her center stage, and her co-star passes her, makes brief, fleeting eye contact, and his eyes are shining, and it truly hits Pansy that her life for the past ten years is ending, and she’ll never be able to come back to it.

Hell, for all she knows she’ll never perform again, she’ll move to Toronto with Camille and her daughter, or rent an apartment in San Francisco and have breakfast with Louis and his husband every morning. 

Maybe she’ll move back to London and crash on Draco and Harry’s couch, even though she’s 45 and that sounds like something a 20 year old would do.

Maybe she’ll take her nine year old goddaughter (shamefully named Molly Weasley-Zabini, instead of the obviously superior Pansy Weasley-Zabini) and sweep her off to Paris, give her some good memories to replace the bad ones.

Who knows.

She has no job offers. She has no auditions. She has nothing after this.

Uncertainty is greeting her, folding her into its arms, and maybe that’s the best outcome.

The future spreads out before Pansy like it never has before.

Voices start to drop away, she moves downstage, desperately hopes her voice doesn’t crack or waver, hopes it delivers.

Everything, everyone fades away, and the last note tears out of Pansy, filling up the stage, filling up the expansive audience and it’s breathless and powerful and tears are in her eyes and soon even the orchestra has cut out, and it’s just her.

Only her, voice swelling, perfect vibrato, cathartic and an unleashing, wet eyelashes, streaming mascara, wig curling at the nape of her neck. It’s ten years and twenty years and thirty years and she has flashes of age fifteen, of narrowly avoiding the Dark Mark and jeering at Harry fucking Potter and ignoring Draco’s red eyes, and flashes of all those years after, of numbing the pain with sex and drugs and burning firewhiskey, and then getting caught in eyes, dark eyes, and what seems like a thousand moments after.

She’s simply an amalgamation of her friends’ laughter and her niece’s bright eyes and curly hair, she’s made up of unashamed _I love you_ ’s and tears as she leaves over and over again.

Finally, her voice dies, she lets herself cut off, slump down, and normally at this point they’re lining up for bows, but when she looks around, all she sees are tears and cheers from castmates, who are pressing against the curtains and wings and clapping and yelling.

She turns back to the audience, and the applause, it’s deafening, it’s fucking  _ deafening _ , and she can’t help the sob that rips out of her, as the lights come up and she sees thousands on their feet, applauding for her, it’s all for her. And it’s not the first standing ovation she’s had but it’s certainly the biggest, it might even be the last. 

She bows, long and deep, cheeks wet with tears, laughing slightly as the cheers swell, it’s all for her, it’s all for me, she thinks, it’s beautiful and expansive and will live in her heart forever.

There’s applause at her back and at her sides, and it’s all for her.

It’s all she’s ever wanted, truthfully.

Her eyes sweep over the audience, take in the red faces and floor length gowns and curled hair, she even sees one man sobbing, and she goes up to the mezzanine, back down, scans the first, second, third row, and suddenly stalls, stutters, her eyes sticking on one pair of black eyes in the middle of the fourth row.

One pair of black eyes, dark eyes she’s been caught in for years, in the third row, shining and screaming and whooping. 

Pansy inhales, exhales.

Clothed in a white suit, hair in a great big afro, eyes reflecting everything back at her.

Pansy’s eyes meet Hermione’s for the first time in ten years.

And her future lays out in front of her.

*

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> ch.2 will be up shortly (as soon as I finish class lol)


End file.
